A Harrisburg Bridge, years before the flood of 2011

Coffee: Deer: Rain Haikus

rolling out of bed
not aware of very much
then i make coffee

who is watching whom?
she stands in the forest free--
i am behind glass.

soaking up the rain
in my dreams it falls
watering my brain

"Entrance"

watercolor, 10" X 6.5"

No Matter

I dream
in my waking as well as in my sleeping.

Memories fill my brain and
love and hate fill my heart.

Intentions desire and guilt and pride
guide my steps and my plans.

Poems and paintings
pleasure and pain call me to ponder
meaning, significance.

Yet no matter how lofty my thoughts
may rise, I realize

I am a creature. A mammal.
I hunger, I sleep, I die.

Lent

It began when my good husband
suggested the most ironic Lenten sacrifice.
"I think maybe this year,
I'll give up Church."

My mind is reeling.

Born Again

How many times must I be born in just one lifetime?
There was the first time which was probably stressful
though I apparently didn't mind enough to remember it.

There were a few times in my youth when
my point of view was twisted into something new.

There were a few very dark births which felt more like death
when they were happening but later the light shone back and
I recognized the transition for what it was. New life.

There were the months my chest felt like it would either collapse or explode and I would either be born again or die trying.
I'm not dead yet.

But I'm on the verge of something once more.
And if I weren't so tired of being born again,
I'd be a little more excited about it.

The Affect of Laughter on the Variable Perception of the Passing of Time

Sometimes when I'm with certain people and we laugh a lot together
it seems as though time stands still and life will never end.

Other times when joy bursts from my lungs and squeezes out through my tear ducts
I am afraid time is all going too fast and
will be over before I'm ready.

I woke

I woke today.
The sun had woken before me.
My toes moved.
My hands moved.

My heart moved too--
with gratitude for
my body, my rest,
the rest of the day.

black and white

My world is black and white,
black trees jutting skyward out of white snow,
true words spoken out of pure intentions.

My world is red and yellow,
tulips side by side singing harmony,
love and fear holding hands in my heart.

My world is blue and green,
sky and fields touching in a moving line,
flying and standing,
space and connection,
death and life...

Odd

Odd, isn't it
how a warm hand
makes ice of snow?

Winter Rose

Winds blow and snow
falls, falls.
Clouds part and my heart
leaps, leaps,
when in the tree--
the barren, naked tree--
blooms a blood-red
winter rose.

Blood-red, black head
and stock-still,
the winter rose
arises,
a risen spirit.
Can you hear it sing?
Can you hear?

goodbye

The snow is falling on the day you died.
I wonder what, if anything is in your mind now or if
you are at all.
It is cold.
Your body is cold.
My heart is cold,
the earth is cold.
But the fire burns,
and if I sit near enough,
perhaps my heart will
stir again.

When it's not enough

When sleep cannot provide the rest you need
when tears don't bring relief
when struggling gets you nowhere
and faith brings no belief

when roads lead everywhere but home
when home itself is dark
look up into the big night sky
and cry up to the stars

no little dipper pouring grace
no portion measured out
keep looking for the one that holds
more mercy than you've doubt

Words are never

No mater how well-intentioned,
well-defined,
well-planned or heart-felt,
words are never-
enough