Storm Squall

retreating clouds

i see the the dawn breaking with scattered low clouds having discharged their rain upon the lands and city;

cleansing the air,

giving even the dusty corners a renewed purity as doesthe street washer as it goes about its task like a mindlessjuggernaut without feeling or compassion;

even the birds sought shelter from the cleansing moisture, now do they enjoy the comfort that the healingwaters have delivered freely to them;

having brought a new life and a new opportunity, does chance renew, invigorate, and supply us with a wonderful sense of being;

there is a new hope in the air,

a freshness smelled, a new awareness, a fabulous hope and expectancy racing into the hearts, minds, and bodies of all living things;

when breathed in we find the expectancy exhilarating, seemingly, where nothing can touch within ourselves; this joy, this passion, this savoring of the moment which we
might lock within ourselves forever;

this is ours to share or keep secretly locked away or captured for the future in a picture; ours, to trade as a fascinating story, or the gift of a poem,
secreted as a valuable treasure, or left to despair without a second glance as we are some times too busy to experience or savor such a joyous moment;

we often find ourselves gazing at retreating clouds; more often, grateful they are departing, not realizing the most precious of gifts were placed before our feet or chanced to fall upon our shoulders.




 words not spoken are most

profound when life expects

more, hears not a sound.


 Would we speak as neighbors,

I believe so – yes, true.

I would eventually say hello

to you.


 Perhaps though today, would

my words tickle as does the

feather escaping its pillowcase.


 We have yet to regain the

wonderful union of words, when as

early writers struggled, debated

poetry or verse, with the strike

of a key answers to questions

appear instantly, at times making

things worse.


 World literary giants might nod

or poke, while searching for a

reason as to why everything works.


 Waver not in your passion for words,

by the same strength of heart and

values one can feel through your

mind a suffering.


 Perhaps today this is required of

all to resemble a buffering.


 Wishing upon the dreams or

expectations of others was a focus,

perhaps a mainstay of the culture

of times past.

 Saloon, campus or home was a place

to study, think or debate styles,

merits or even the principles of



 Whether the World notices many

blogged words is of little consequence,

words pour from your heart and in this,

it’s all that matters.

Poetry Thursday

Captured Beauty: Melancholy

Captured Beauty: Melancholy

Eyes of the largest pools of innocent
charm reflecting back to the viewer
exactly what they want you to see.

Life’s questions motives, hears only

The eyes stare, not with hate
as some imagine. Easier to claim
disgust, a shake of the head or shrug
of the shoulders than to look inside

You see me in the places where you
have walked – I was the loner, whom
all claimed was unapproachable,
while I wore my jeans that never
seemed washed, hair long and
sometimes unwashed for days,
adorned in a black leather jacket
when cold over an ever-present
T-Shirt that was underwear during
winter and outerwear during summer
while upon my face the scowl was
ever present.

Perhaps I was the hip nonconformist
priding themselves on keeping sane
while a World tore itself apart.

Am I the tender beauty whose eyes
have observed enough of the
injustice in my time to flee inside
mind and save that small place
where I might cower or relax without
the unfairness that seems the
established norm today. My hair I
need to cover all or most of my face
because there are villains that are
walking about in plain sight and
working to destroy youths futures
behind closed doors.

I could be the class clown who while
making people laugh at my antics,
was observing all and trying to see
the truth within people.

Was I the ner’ do well whom, most
grownups gave up as lost, dense,
radical – not seeing the true beauty
before them bearing up under pain.

What now when even our society is
split amongst right, wrong, kinda.

You wish for me to leave the safety
of an environment I can control and
move all out into your ideological
self-realized “myscape” then accept
that as the status quo,
pppllleeaassee – hello any active
brain cells moving about in there.

Who decided a few people should
determine the course for millions,
that should scream loudly about our
system of living being flawed.

So I have constructed a wall inside of
my mind where brick by brick I built
over time, upon hurt after hurt and
I shelter there, against pain, injustice
and unfairness practiced as the
norm today, against theft and
mocking those who are the victims.

I do not stare to offend, only while
behind my wall I do not wish to speak
to anyone. Not, rude just please a
little space to hide from this World
and it’s angry at times persistent
demands on my time.

I share this with you, I use my hair as
a shield and a shout out to others
that you are not alone, we are not
any better than other people, just
different. Shielding my eyes from
stares and smirks or even ridicule
is not unheard of, being abused or
bullied because I do not look like
some politician, or hair cut like the
military is no ones business but my

I like me as I am, please try liking
yourself – it works.

So you look into my eyes of guarded
resentment and you think I blame
you, I don’t even know you.

I can see every finger of resentment
pointing inward from my brick wall,
straight towards me. I do not need
to be constantly reminded. The status
quo is doing fine admonishing
me in my own head with droning
droning droning – yesssch.
Sometimes I want to ralf.

Hey, haters of my hair or perhaps that
I wear mascara as a guy, or too much as a
girl, so what.

I love, too. There is a cute guy at
work that I am ga-ga about, though it
would not show on my face; or that
there is a woman who I am love with
whom I would hug her forever, if she
acknowledged that she even had feelings
for me.

I have a heart, it can be hurt.
I have feelings, they can be abused.
I have opinions, they can be debated.
I have choices, I have made one.

I stay veiled behind my hair and
I build my wall a little higher, seems
safer and the pain is mine to carry

Poetry “building my wall” Thursday

Wayfarers Guide: Raven

Wayfarers Guide: Raven

Midnight colored was the cloak worn
upon the body, night crossed black
eyes while aloft beyond Earths

I compared this to my vision of you.

Whether covered by cap, veil reveals
the most stunning mantle found.

Claiming the darkest of night to
brightest of days; your hair is a
covering of reverberating beauty
from head to ground.

Shunning given norms of
personal space, I was riveted, as
intrigued, fascinated; I fell under
your spell.

I saw as the wind played with softest
of tresses, sending them gently,
almost tenderly across your face.
I stood fixated, not from afar,
perhaps in calling distance not far

You were the star of the show, this
life. My admiration grows daily don’t
you know, not fawning is healthy,
loves growth should be slow.

Warm skin, enhanced with bangles,
and lace. Gloves and wrist covers
from full sleeves to hands perfectly
adorned builds toward your gentle

The blouse, shirt or sweater you don
merely becomes a secondary feature
when covering your body; you are the
foundation of beauty which GOD
used like a fresco for the completion
of you HIS masterpieces.

Each opening in lace is the frame
for a tender portrait that lies behind.
Every opening is a masterwork of
purest beauty as skin and lace
performs a feminine dance that
intrigues the mind.

A complex humanity is housed
within, so much honor, and life’s
deepest mysteries, intelligence you
possess having much to share.

Deeply entrenched are values of
woman’s persona; man sought to
define woman in a myriad of ways.
Man remains befuddled as a
stumbling babe in her complex day.

Able to share for those in her
life, deemed necessary she will touch
across all races and creeds, whether
in peace or amid strife; it is a
motherhood value. What a wonderful thing.

Paths diverge and part as is her choice,
when she shares what wondrous magic
she can impart, not one magician has
managed to recreate her granted ability.
Nature is not all the time fair, her

Giving, whether natural or not.
Abilities giving not into fear, not
intimidated by tasks. She can fight
as well as love those she chooses
and many count themselves blessed
who stand in her favor.

Drifting on unseen air currents, my
heart reaches for you. My net is
cast but comes back empty.
So lost in what is not, I think on the
values and joy, the mysterious
complexity of women.

Our world is fortunate.

The raven drifts out of my sight.

Poetry Thursday