Father’s Face

 

A father’s hand perfectly fits across a child’s face.

To hide away her fears;

fears of the realities she will endure. 

fears of the unknown when you let her go. 

 

But for now, a father’s hand fits perfectly

 over a child’s face only to love her. 

 

Loving her as she twirls, in her big tulle skirt.

Loving her as she walks into the arms of her prince. 

 

But for now, a father’s hand fits perfectly 

over a child’s face only to give her peace. 

 

Peace when she cries at night, between the thunderclaps. 

Peace when she has decided to leave, to make her new home. 

 

And when the child has grown up, her father’s hand is now smaller. 

His shoulder’s that once held her high in the air are frail. 

 

It is her hand that cups his face

hiding his fears of leaving her 

giving him peace to say goodbye

 and always loving even after he closes his eyes. 

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Blessed, on this big rock

The fourth of July is a very special time for me, as it is for many others. A time to really celebrate, enjoy each other’s company and be humbled by the sacrifices made in 1776 and the continued sacrifice of men and women today. I remember fondly, my family spending the fourth of July in South Dakota; and while it didn’t work out to do that this year, I am still very blessed. I don’t know if I have posted this before, but I am able to enjoy, and just be happy because their is a God above who loves me, and men and women around me who want to protect me. Happy Fourth of July and God Bless America!

 

There was this big rock that just sat there when I was young.

From a distance, it seemed like a huge boulder, you couldn’t move it, it just sat there.

This rock was on the property of my grandparents, on a lake, in South Dakota.

Things in life were finer there. I don’t mean we were rich in money but rich in the things that mattered. The company we kept and the simple things we did.

There were wood pillars that faced many thunderstorms and ropes that were ripped and fallen. The grass was brittle but it grew like corn. And there was this big rock.

 

It served its purpose well, as the mountain climbing experience for our Barbies and GI Joe’s.

The stove in which we cooked our soup.

A mixture of lake water, a few leaves, weeds…for flavor

Some good size pebbles so we could actually stir something and

of course a sprinkle of gravel.

 

To the left of the rock, depending on where you sat, stood this yellow lanterned man.

His lantern shined dimly from dusk till we noticed it off.

And though the cowbells and leaves continue to cling to him, he was still ours.

 

 

I pause, remembering the past,  I could continue with stories: hearing the fish splash, and disrupting the perfectly still lake.  You would chuckle at our determined attempts to pick every single rock from the gravel road. We would stuff them in our pocket, carry them in our shirts; walking carefully but quickly to the dock. And after all that work, throwing them in with all our might!

I could talk for hours of the many blissful 4th of Julys. Black Cat. Fruit Pizza. Face Paint.   The time I  tired to light the shell, and it almost fired in my ear, or the memorable later laughable time my cousin fell into the lake. I could sing you a few songs from the campfires we had. The time we used cumin instead of cinnamon for the biscuits. My list will go on, and on and continue down the well walked gravel road.

Because being here with all the memories,  good and bad allows me to thank the Lord for how blessed I am. And as long as this big rock sits, year after year, I will hold on tho the memories.  So thank you,  Jesus, I am grateful and I am blessed.

Home

You can bet on Murphy’s Law

the minute I write on this spare,

I’m going to need it, but here it goes.

 

I am from the bottom of a hatch.

I come from a four-door P.T. Cruiser

that bless her heart can’t get over 60

without huffing and puffing.

Sometimes, it’s Bach, other times it’sTim McGraw,

Most of the time it’s Positive & Encouraging K-Love.

I don’t mind the town’s cobbled roads

and streets like Roberts, and Bradford

because it all works well for me.

Justified Love on Behalf of A Sinner

May God Be With You,

that He wouldn’t hide in the shadows, hidden from his touch, like we do.

That He wouldn’t be like the thousand decisions we as humans have made on our own, believing we manage just fine.

Selfish souls who believe they are immutable as if they have been dealt a perfect hand and only when we run out do we point fingers.

Past time here on the land He perfected, was not created or designed to be a flaw.

How can we justify, and accept love when we threw it all away?  Each time wrapped in flesh, tied with a red ribbon.

For the thousand choices we decided, were

good.

Burn to ash for ash we are.

But He lifts our chin and says you’re mine.

The solitude He has kept and waited patiently to dust us off and clean us up and look on us with love.

Each thousand thought erased from His design, His image.

May God Be With You.

Powerful Words

Beauty 

is in

Error

in fault

Hope

in God

Pride

for what’s

However

don’t think

Bravery

takes extreme

Audacity 

how dare

Judge 

me not

Truth 

is hidden.

Without words

 

 

 

 

Silence

            remains.

Letters next to each other forming unbinding relationships.

Words are lasting, they do no break. They are always going to be

here.

untitled

It has been FAR too long since I have written a poem, just because I could. I have written several poems for my classes, that were required and needed to be a specific length, form, and rhythm. However, this poem is just a poem that I wanted to write.  However, I am stuck on the title of the poem. I was once told that the title of a poem is the invitation to a poem for the readers. If you have any suggestions, I would really appreciate it. For now, we will just call it, untitled.

 

Untitled

Still, the clock hands

won’t move. Sound yearns

through the silent walls.

The hands stand still.

 

Timid, the light sways

in the room. The absence

of dark waits patiently.

The light fades.

 

Still, long forgotten are the notes

that played songs and stories

lingering on the laughter.

The piano collects dust.

 

Bare, the oak mantle stands

proud. But there is no

audience to entertain.

The room is bare.

 

Still, there were memories here

that haven’t been erased.

Perhaps just swept into a corner

waiting for the spring breeze.

To shake the memories, awake.

 

Lemons

She entered the shop at a half- past two, the shop closed at three.

She was quiet and cautious; trailing her fingers over the fabric.

I asked her if she needed help, and she declined, averting her gaze.

She was a striking creature; angular features, tiny emerald eyes barely seen because of her

long luscious bangs.

Her porcelain skin, contrasted with her ebony hair.

She was tall.  I imagined if we were dancing, she in heels, we would be eye level.

She looked in my direction and in that moment I saw her.

Longing and desperation for something to be okay.

The bell clanked on the door frame, and she was gone.

The only thing that remained was the fragrance of lemons.

 

She came again at a half-past two, and the shop closed at three.

She paused in the doorway as if I kept her from entering.

Alas, I stood at the desk waiting for her, I smiled.

She looked around, and once again I asked her if she needed assistance.

No, a velvety voice responded with a sad smile.

Why, she smiled, I still wonder to this day.

 

Her red nail polish caught my eye.

“Are you sad?” she asked.

 

Her internal thought process and her question, had me in mind;  an invitation perhaps,

but then she was gone.

 

To this day, when I see  lemons, I can’t help the sad, smile on my face.

 

 

Photo credit: Pintrest
Editing by Beth Kenow 
Lemons by Victoria Kenow 

The Old Man in his Pick-up with His Pipe.

The days are getting shorter, the moon was anxious to rise. But before the sun sat, the old man in his pick-up was buying flowers for his girl. He drove down the pebbled streets, his pipe securely clenched between his teeth.  The smoke slide out the window and the wind took him back…

To the porch,

where he stood

proud but still

with flowers freshly picked behind his back.

His hand clenched, talking himself out of

a knock, when  the door swung open.

Rose,

swayed back and forth in her newly stitched dress.

Her hair attempted to be pulled up,

but the wind took her back…

To the diner

where she first saw him.

Pouring coffee

on his lap.

She blushed and he winked.

The old man got the flowers on the corner. The leaves were falling, and they crunched under his footsteps. It was cool outside, and he had to turn on the heat quickly, as his hands gripped the wheel. The wind that pushed against the door, took him back…

To the sun setting and the harvest finished.

To his dusty left-footed boots

That made him trip and fall in love with,

Rose,

who sat on the back porch, held him close

against the wind,that took her back…

To that night, when she said I do,

and he did too.

Lasting 70 years of young love.

 

The old man in his pick up with his pipe,

the Autumn breeze so  cool and kind.

Taking him home, to his Rose.

little / birdie

you broke my wing

but i will fly again.

can i say,

the same

for you?

 

your tongue  tied me in knots

you pushed too hard

and i heard the snap

that limp arm.

 

Can you say,

what you said,

was right?

was just

or kind?

 

i didn’t flinch.

though i could have

probably should have.

Can you say, that

you would have

felt remorse?

 

you broke my wing

but that doesn’t mean

I failed,

it means I will

fly agin.

 

And when I do, I won’t be landing, on you.

Thank you Disney Workers

I just wanted to dedicate this poem to all the Disney World Workers. It isn’t the places like Writer’s Stop or other attractions that make it worth it. It is YOU, it is your smile, and your dedication to making the place we all enjoy so wonderfully! 🙂

 

Hollywood Don’t forget Us

 

I, think, there is something

endearing  about

Hollywood.

 

Not the drama or

the extras.

Just the stage show.

 

Combing the opposites,

reveling a whim-

sical and classic

time capsule.

 

We all want to

hold on to

the  glitz and glamour

and final shots.

 

Even as years blur,

our past continues

to root us,

stories can be

and will be

continuously shown.

 

It might hurt

remembering, everything

but it is the only way for us

to move forward.

 

Hollywood captures those details

so we can always reflect

on what matters most,

 

for who are we

without our past,

our traditions,

our heritage?