she sits calmly
unaware of passing cars
hidden by the concrete wall
covered with textural stucco

quiet
so as not to disturb
flitting hummingbirds
at the feeder
hanging near the patio corner

silent
while she gathers
her thoughts that have strayed
during yesterday’s scurrying

contemplative
without her blackberry and ear-buds
filling her head
with creativity
generated by others

content
she knows
sometimes
all she needs
is a hot cup of coffee
a pen and paper
a hummingbird for company

Escaping February winds and snow
blustering across the plains like
a locomotive
charging down a steep hill

Escaping snow blown by
fierce winds whipping it
like heavy cream into
swirling mounds and drifts

Escaping gray skies
dark ominous clouds
pushed by February winds
stampeding across the heartland

Escaping my winds of change
in this sunny retreat
south of cold
west of gray

Finding sunshine and clarity
surrounded by red mountains
and aquamarine skies

Real Time

real-time images
a glimpse
a mere flash of the story
reveal

wide eyes
transfixed
her face and body
immobilized by
unbearable scenes
vivid sounds flung

into this moment where
she files them away forcing
her gaze to scan
the devastation pouring
down around
her dust covered body
now struggling

to find footing on the
catapulting earth rolling
beneath her

she strains to hear
beyond sounds of crying and screaming
beyond the clamor of her crumbling world
for the familiar

her raw fingers
claw and dig
moving stones
concrete slabs
she clambers over
broken boards
of her home
turned into rubble

pausing momentarily
she listens for her child’s voice
to break through
the chaos

a cry
a whimper
willing its sound
to find its way to her ears

January ushers in a new calendar
I confidently begin
in INK

Jot birthdays
note anniversaries
remember family and friends

Milestone dates 
fixed in their places
mark regular occurring events

Reflecting stellar intentions
lock each activity into appropriate squares
Bible Study, knitting class, ball games, church
in big letters enter WRITER’S BLOK

Life takes shape

control time
continue to plan…

Record “water aerobics” in three spaces every week
work, exercise, spiritual growth,
time with friends and family

Fresh starts
sparkle optimistically
a neon glow promising success

Reality check–
compare the pristine new calendar with
last year’s tattered edition
worn and shabby
thin from erasing

How naïve to think
time is under my control

Crossed out plans
arrows marking changed dates and times
unexpected doctor’s appointments
quickly penciled in coffee dates
emergency baby-sitting
events definitely not part of January’s planning

Days so packed
I borrow
writing space from surrounding squares
to accommodate reminders of commitments

Looking carefully at last year’s calendar
reveals telltale evidence of false starts:

diet lasting ‘til February,
resolve to entertain once a month
pledge to host sleep-overs with grandkids
time set aside for
studying the Bible in systematic way is
swallowed up by the
“tyranny of the urgent”

Beginnings, like January, are arbitrary
Excellent endings require time

the end of the road
just out of sight
along the path
around the bend
it waits
for all of us to arrive
sooner or later
alone
often wishing the
journey were longer

The Plans: Jeremiah 29:11

I know
we read from Jeremiah
confident
we are on God’s radar
He knows

the plans I have
this is not an accident
happening randomly
out of chaos
He still has plans

for you
His plans are personal
not generic like some of the
medicines in my cupboard
these are plans
for you

to give you
not to take
not to destroy
this is hard, Lord, when
all seems contrary
to your promise
to give

a future
how can that be
when the future seems
so short
not the threescore and ten
as promised to the saints
a future

and a hope
there it is
hope
the missing piece
our hope is in Him
our future rests with Him

I know this
this I know

Ambush

in late summer
illness startles me
sneaking up
like a coyote’s ambush
knocking me off my feet

into a hospital bed
stretched
with harsh sheets
bleached
in the industrial laundry
where they are whitened

to match the color
of my face, pale
with illness
that has wrapped
its claws
around me
dug in
and shut down my ordinary life

days are carved
into ragged
segments
by orders
for tests
scans
poking, prodding procedures
interspersed
with
respites
of
waiting

time hunches along
the yellow line
in the hallway leading
to elevators
that transport

groggy patients
to the stainless antiseptic room
filled
with torture instruments
designed
to liberate
the living parts of me
from all that is dying

Itchy Season

it’s an itchy time of year
skin dry from cold dry air
skin tender
from rough wool sweaters and hats

throats scratchy from
too little humidity
germs looking for a place to settle

tempers edgy
from lack of sleep
too much to do
too little time
too little money

ragged around the edges
from past irritations
uncomfortable memories
we gather for the mandatory
Christmas meal

makeshift table and coverings
folding chairs
kids chase round the kitchen island
wound on excitement
high on sugar
running on caffeine drinks

bristle at inconvenience
bristle at inequality
wanting a fair share

hearts desire
to be giving
to be selfless
to overflow with
grace and kindness

Christmas Peace to
smooth rough edges

Peace for hearts and for bodies weary with
worry and responsibility
deadlines and duties

bring this heart
peace

in the midst of trial
peace

in the midst of Christmas confusion
peace

in a time of worry and fretting
peace

swaddled
in a scratchy bed of straw
discover
the Prince of Peace

Harry's view after the first snow.

Seeking Christmas

We listen for words that tell Your story
listen for music to welcome You
like the shepherds and angels of long ago

airwaves fill with stories of reindeer
a snowman, a grinch, a jolly old elf
urging children to be good for goodness’ sake

TV programs drivel sappy stories
tinkling bells as souls in limbo transform into
angels and receive their wings

shallow messages
as meaningless as dead trees
with artificial decorations

music sung by chipmunks
magical sleighs
ho ho ho of an all-knowing bearded man in a red suit

We hunger for You, Lord
hunger for Your story
hunger for the Baby in the Manger
the Man of Galilee

We seek the message of the Heavenly Hosts
good News of Great Joy
behold a Child is born
He will save His people

We celebrate Your birth
O Holy Child
with good words

Wonderful, Counselor
Prince of Peace
Bright and Morning Star
Savior, Son of God

insufficient words
to express
Your Greatness

We bow
like wise men
in awe
and present
our humble gifts

I made a few edits and retitled this poem. I would be interested in any feedback you would have to offer.

Ambush

in late summer
illness startles me
sneaking up
like a coyote’s ambush
knocking me off my feet

into a hospital bed
stretched
with harsh sheets
bleached
in the industrial laundry
where they are whitened

to match the color
of my face, pale
with illness
that has wrapped
its claws
around me
dug in
and shut down my ordinary life

days are carved
into ragged
segments
by orders
for tests
scans
poking, prodding procedures
interspersed
with respites of waiting

time hunches along
the yellow line
in the hallway leading
to elevators
that transport

groggy patients
to the stainless antiseptic room
filled
with torture instruments
designed
to extricate
the living parts of me
from all that is dying

Raincoats

autumn’s foliage
wears a coat of
rain and gray today

settling
over the lively bright colors
showing off
in yesterday’s sunlight

drips and drums
of steady rain
subduing the radiant hues
as if in mourning

October Perfect

breeze cools
and refreshes

sun deposits
blush on cheeks

grass proclaims “Green!”
closing the season

leftover summer flowers
shout their last hurrah

migratory birds circle
in preparatory formations

October perfect

the moon shines full
as we round
the corner
near the lake

bright in the sky
its reflection
spills across
the lake

full moon’s
silver light
slips into the water
until nothing
but a sliver
remains

marking time
we watch
the light
drown

Silence Between

Silence between the words
hangs heavy
weighting the air
slamming it into the ground
like metal anchor posts driven
into four corners of the shed
preventing it from lifting
when the wind blows
hard
against the batten siding

Silence with substance
like bricks
stacked high
on a wooden pallet
requiring
the strength of six men
to bear the load

He cannot lift the silence that falls
from the spaces between
words, as powerful
as a general with stars
lining his shoulder patches
metals clanging
against his jacket breast

Silence pushes the words farther apart
stretching the spaces until
the length of two battle fields
settles between them

Screaming silence
fills each vacancy between the
unbearable sequence of words

We regret to inform you

Red Spaces

My Joys

to hear my husband turn the pages of the newspaper
to smell the oatmeal he prepares for me each morning

to hear music made by a child as she plays in her piano recital
to see the graduate cross the stage and receive his diploma
to see a soccer goal made by a grandchild

to observe the robin build her nest
sit faithfully for hours and days
tending, warming her eggs
devoted to the task

to watch the perennials
wake from their long slumber
break boldly through the soil
announce their strength
to grow another season

to see babies born healthy
cherished by parents
comforted when they are lonely or hungry

pilgrimage to places of beauty
Grand Canyon
Lake Tahoe
Maroon Bells
Peace River
Smoky Mountains
Coastal highways
Banff to Jaspers
Denali when the cloud curtains open

to ride fast on my bike
feel the wind against my skin
ride twenty miles on the bike paths
to hike Lost Dog Trail

to know all my children and grandchildren
rest safely in their beds
to be at peace with my loved ones

to feel connected to another human being
to be appreciated for my uniqueness and peculiarities
to not feel lonely in a crowd

to sleep undisturbed
wake in time for the sunrise

to know God hears all my prayers
answers each one
perfectly

Wolf Man

a large man
with full beard and apoplectic eyes
lives one step
removed from the street

a squatter in a building
without electricity or
a usable bathroom

he has survivor instincts

his wolf-shepherd mix female has just
given birth to a large litter
of wolf-shepherd-chow puppies
a squealing ruffle
that tumbles around his legs
when he moves about the crowded room
lit by a string of Christmas lights.
a lengthy extension cord
plugs into a nearby restaurant’s
electrical outlet

he loves to sew
his specialty
codpieces
with a Martha Stewart theme

he works his designs
assembling them by hand
a stub of hand-rolled reefer
smolders
in an ashtray
littered with cannabis crumbs

beads
fabric, bric-a-brac
in uneven stacks
surround
his work space

art supplies
gleaned
from trash receptacles
or pilfered
from high-end bead stores

his brilliant designs command
bartering leverage
when trading smokes
for custom adornments

I knock, then enter
arms full of containers
and wrest a
be-ribboned
bag of dog food
into a corner

I cross the workroom quietly
as the flounce of fur
quickly gathers
around my ankles

jumping to his feet
he greets me with a hug

the pack’s hub-bub of growls and pushing
settles
when three large pans
of dog chow are hurriedly
placed on the floor

we arrange the Holiday meal
on the work table
complete with
an improvised topper of red velvet
found in his fabric stash

warm turkey aroma
escapes its
sealed aluminum foil packages
overpowers the pungent odors
and pushes them into the background

the atmosphere borders on festive

wolf-man takes his place
pours two cups of warm coffee
I pull up a makeshift footstool
and sit down