Wishful Thinking

Welcome to Day 16. Thank you for joining me on this journey. To read all posts in this series, click on the page tab marked #write31days at the top of my home page.  Poetry has returned after taking Wednesday off. More prose awaits around the dusty bend.


Wishful Thinking


If I took the reigns for just a day
Took charge and had control, choreographer
Of each hour
Of the night and day
I would give the morning more
Morphing all the hours into
Break of, e
arly, mid
Stopping at noonday

Morning’s sunrise slow and sure
Would have till noon
To spread her blinding sunburst wings
Across the sleepy sky
And I
Would let the shadows slow dance
Silhouetted ghosts at play

I’d give the early morning all she’d need
Let the dew stay
More than just a little while
Linger longer
Unhurried on each blade of emerald
Grass, like glass
Never to evaporate

Tell her that her morning chill
Can have all day
To brush across the faces
Of those who take their time to wake
And breathe their smokey breathes

I’d crown morning
Let her reign
Over every living thing

If I had my way
I’d never have to say
Good bye my dear
Or wave a sad goodbye




Wheelbarrow Of Words

orchid and sun through door slats

You single wheeled cart
She places her art inside of you
A through Z tumble out hard
Carrying all that wells up inside of her

You handle with care the words
She places there, for now
Sacred container of
Words, filled to the brim, spilling over the rim

Z through A jumbled pieces, imperfect
No home in  prose
You hold
Everything that needs a holy  home

You carry pieces of a soul
Spun with tenderness with fragile yarn
Depositing gentle at the feet

Of those
Meant to receive a gift of poetry
Not prose

Line by line the art pulls the thread
Which started in the left ventricle of her heart
Held now frozen on a page
WIthin the walls
Of this word  sanctuary called


Penned imperfection, carried with care within a
Wheelbarrow of words
As with all that ‘s meant to fly away
She’ll  pin the Monarch wings and set them free

You may now
Dump out all her poetry
Metaphor  which carries dirt
Your services  no longer needed here

For if she is created in His image
As it says
Co-creator with her God on High
She’ll park the wheelbarrow in the shed
For now

And humbly place the winged words
On the currents of the wind
And wave goodbye to what
Was born inside of her

Grace and peace to you as you travel far or near
My heart, my art, my  poetry

Joining Laura at Playdates At The Wellspring