Texas I Remember

Texas Winter donned a chill
windy days and rainy nights –
funny how I’d forgotten that

I remember coastal waters
the sheer joy of cranes in flight
or Roseated spoonbills feasting

The warm thrill of tortilla soup
and the satisfaction of enchiladas
spices still lingering in my mind

A scrap of Texas memorialized
an endearing image blotting out
the internal, newsworthy, storms.

(Image my own)

Let Light Lead

Thoughts, no more than grains,
block the path; how did I become
so invested in self-analysis:
a fool’s game, no winners

Light does not trip over molecules
but decorates, celebrates passage;
moves on – a hopeful dance
whose steps I’d do well to imitate

(Image my own. Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson)

Forgiveness

Resting, I pray for peace
but it is temporary
guilt intervenes

What if I withdraw
commit to solitude
keep my tongue?

I need angel guidance
this mothering heart
infectious, requires wisdom

My past is soiled
I am stinking, tainted
Can forgiveness help?

Pick me up,
give me strength
I am lacking courage

Teach me moderation
modesty to guide my words
I only want to help…

But this vile thirst
this self-deprecation
reigns me in

What value have I
in a world stricken by need
my offering mere morsels?

I pray for peace
I pray for grace
Forgiveness offers a hand.

(Image my own).

Winged

Heron’s wings span six-feet wide
great grey appendages in rhythmic flight

Dragonfly wings are camouflaged,
propel elongated bodies who hover in sight

Monarch’s wings are stained-glass delicate
with each flutter, sprinkle fantasies of delight

My wings, imaginary, give me faith and hope
mechanisms of spirituality, my soul’s fire ignite.

(Image mine)

Of Light

There is light in unknowns –
at least I project it there –
caught between the current
ashen landscape and the achings
of a solitary childhood…

I like to think faith guides me
but she is muted like the gardens
of my dreams, more ethereal
than palpable and I need concrete
have waited too long for that train

of certainty to carry me away…
course it never comes, there is no easy
just a slow, steady plodding: a pace
that age has settled on; so I turn
to inner landscapes, imagination
remembering colour…and yes, light.

(Image my own creation)