There Is A Place

Robert Lewis Stevenson

There Is A Place

When I grow up I want to be
Queen on her throne
Reigning over the land of just be
Dipping toes in Crayola blue
Birthed in a crayon in 1903
My subjects and me, merry and mindful as awake as can be
Living and thriving in the place where we can all just

Discover the joy of the  ruby red hummingbird’s throat

and the brittle loud harmony of a drove of Cicada

perched in a tree, serenading Narnia my she billy goat

(Now I can breathe)

The verb is quite over-used and frightfully misunderstood
But when I grow up
I will let you be
And yet not
For you will be alone with me
Whispering grateful hymns of praise
In the land of “There Is A Place”
Rooted, established in
Astonishing un -extraordinary



Subjects and a queen, you can be

queen bee

we shall have scones and tea

precisely at three

and listen to the garden grow grace

oh how happy and peace-filled our kingdom shall be

in this land of “There Is A Place”


Joining Laura




These are the days of extravagance
Want and wanting, desire and desiring
Dim in a rearview mirror, malfunctioning
Objects of desire may appear smaller than they once were
Plenty erupts into abundance
Do not misread the meaning
(Grab and consult Webster if you must, Google it)

For I have looked the giver in her eyes
And touched her coal black skin, said no
And thank you a million times
Refused the gift to a fault
Desire to give out of what she had, burned between our hands
And history rewrote itself

The force with which she gave was mighty
And I was weakened by her might
Turnips and sweet potatoes, an olive branch
Apples for the pie ( she told me to bake)
My no’s were extravagant
Her yeses like steel

Church on the sidewalk
History in the remaking
A sliver of time which doesn’t make sense
Extravagant generosity of a stranger
Left me forever changed

She wore frailty as a badge of her living
My life of never-needing, never-wanting
Rose up like a geyser of guilt
Oh how rich the gift of a giver who has little

Blessed are the poor
Extravagance is a turnip the size of her heart

I walk with a limp, burdened by a heavy load
Shame of a hoarder
Heavy-ladened by the richness of
The gift
In search of the needy
Schooled on the side of the road by the one who
She the Samaritan
I, the ditch dweller

Apples woven, again
Into a story of love

Once Upon A Discovery

There are moments in these days when I wonder at the keeping. The saving of the remnants. The scraps hang on and hang around. Guilt lays a heavy blanket over me and space becomes scarcer.

And then there are the revelations. The ones with the sound and smell of epiphany. The ones that say. One day you will know, the  saving and waiting were for the healing. And for an awakening.

I did a little unpacking.

And the memories found me there. The gaps of mystery will heal in their discovery.


Once Upon A Discovery

Towards the bottom of the bottom
Near the must
(Mold smells like a memory keeper)
Beside the stubs and remnants of a life
The jade green French wired ribbon wraps your earliest days of me
For me
I knew it was your hand that wrote the to and from
Your lips, full and red, that licked the seal
Someone loved hard and long and with a lasting love

Buried in the back of a dresser drawer
(I write the stories I do not know)
But you in your youth left me clues of love and loss
Of pain and joy

It is my turn to follow bread crumbs of a life
To stumble on forgiveness and backtrack without you
If I tell you what you wrote in ’58 and ’59
The heart is now ready
But you’ve lost your mind, a bit
Dementia is a thief
Protecting us in ways which stretch us
Beyond our understanding
We both loved Latin
We now speak Greek, your brow tells me how little you now know

I dream about the lines you wrote
Save them for a crack in time
Wonder what you said of love
And me

The compass points to lime-green veined hands
Three generations mark the trail

We keeper of the treasures
We keeper of the secrets

Tread down a sacred path
Did you mean for me to find, the things that you have left?

Once upon a discovery
I met new parts of you
Gently I will travel
Savoring the stories you chose to never tell

May asks me if am I ready
The Spring will heal us all

Joining Laura

Simple Is The New Fill In The Blank

I cannot tell you if it is a matter of thriving, survival or choice. I cannot tell you if I am preaching to self or sharing with you the leaning in. I simply know that simple is taking me to new places. Simplicity is saying no to good things. I do not know if I left my days of rushing behind me, buried in a heap of ruin or if slow has chosen me out of grace. Perhaps slow and I are choosing each other.

Simple is soulful and rich, uncomplicated and fresh. Simple is joy in a bar of soap, sitting in a chair by the chicken coop watching my growing babies, six of them, enjoy their fresh picked clover.

Simple carves out time for hope and prayer and sweeping the sidewalk.

Simple Is The New Fill In The Blank

I noticed
And then again

Senses on guard
I cannot quantify it
With a poetically pithy cliche
Or, rather, I shall not
But if you can stop dead in your tracks
Still as an August Southern day that does not breathe
Pull off the road
And watch the soulful shrimpers shove off from the shoreline
Let your eyes light on the ebony skin of hard-working men on the Parker D
Strong-leaning against the rail of the vessel, teetering on the verge of passion
Almost find the whites of one man’s eyes as he dreams of feeding his family
With the fruit of the sea in his net
Surely, you are on your way

And perhaps if you
Linger longer over the radish bed
Smell a third and fourth time the pungent cilantro as you break the leaf
(That which your garden gifted you, out of love for your labor)
You’ve moved closer in love
With the ordinary

Uncomplicated finds the cracks
Hears the faintest sound of wind chimes playing a tree-bound symphony
Feels the cold Hershey-colored soil, turned up and over by the dog’s nose

Simple is the new lens

Finally it chose to have its way
With me
And love is new
This Spring

Undoing me along the way


Joining Laura Boggess