POPPY DREAMS

There is something so beautiful and tender about the poppy.  Like every flower it has so many different phases to its life.  Something that I had never noticed is that a poppy is just as beautiful in it's blooming phase as it is when it is withering and dying.  It has been used as a symbol for death, sleep, resurrection, and eternal life.  And of course the red corn poppy is the symbol used for remembrance on Memorial Day.

I was compelled to put together a collection of my poppy pictures from my garden and put some music in the background to add a meditative mood.  I hope you enjoy the outcome.

LOOKING BACK OR LOOKING FORWARD?

Almost all of my life I have wanted to write.  What does that statement mean?  wanted to write...... Really all of my life I have been writing.  It is the one thing that has been a consistent friend, my therapy, through all the good times, but especially the bad.  When I say I wanted to write, what I really mean is that I wanted to get paid for writing.  I wanted to write that perfect novel, the love story, the biography, even the news story that would end up being a best seller.  So why haven't I done it?

Looking back I would say that I have made a lot of excuses.  The only really honest reason is probably the fear surrounded with not completing something that I start.  I remember birthdays coming and going and saying, ok, this is the year.. and that year would pass and still the book was only an outline on the paper.  I probably have at least 10 books outlined and journaled and put away in my basement.

What is going to push me to start an finish my book project?  Perhaps it will be that I want a memoir to give my friend's girls when they are old enough to want to know about their Mom.  Or maybe it will be the one gift that I can leave behind for my own children and grandchildren?

In this day of reality TV and fast-paced computer stories is there room for another novel about life?  Who cares.  It isn't about what other people want anyway.  I am not the people pleasing Momma anymore. There is only one person who has to like what I write and that is ME.

THE LETTER

The envelope sat Unopened, untouched Silent as the empty room If I waited Another minute One more hour Until next week Would the message change? Unadorned Plain white envelope No addressee name It had to be for me I was the only one here. In my hand It felt cold to the touch Like a leaf that Had fallen off the Tree in the dead of winter I opened it slowly With caution As if the words Were sharp razor blades That would cut my fingers. I am so sorry -it started- I was so afraid To be with you And give you my heart. I know one day I will regret That I left this way Just a note Like a sad love song Left unfinished.

ODE TO THE OLD WASH RAG

THE OLD WASH RAG

It hung

over the faucet

like a limp

leaf of lettuce

Smelling of

mixtures

of tuna fish

coffee and

slightly spoiled milk.

How could

you allow

your beautiful

yellow daisies

take on the

look of the

garden soil?

Just yesterday

you were so

so fresh

like summer sunshine

and ready

to fulfill

your purpose

in life.

Maybe someone

will take pity

on you and

spill a bit

of green apple

biodegradable

on your porcelain

grave.