she called herself “Sister” no one
knew her name
long ragged skirt tank top bare feet turquise
beads around her neck
some  said she dated Dylan in New York yet..here she was in
Key West living in a dilapidated abandoned
boat near the beach

she ran a “free store” where wandering
homeless hippies could leave the burdens of
stuff and take only what they needed.

every night as the perfect orange beach ball of sun descended into
the Gulf of Mexico and everyone on the pier cheered she
produced a tamborine from beneaath her skirt she
danced beating out the blues as she loped and swirled
in a slow mournful syncapation no music necessary
the way she swung her hair could take your breath away

I never spoke 
to her…
but wrote her
into a novel so 
many years later

spears plunge from night sky
points pummel tin roof, pierce dreams
petrichor rescues

I saw the boy at a stoplight, turned
my head for a moment, put the cup
of coffee on the dashboard.

I saw the sadness in his face, eyes
too old. The grass was a brilliant green
and the sun allowed no shadows.

Sounds of the city grew louder,
an old car with a flat tire huddled
next to the playground he stood in.

The light changed to green
and his eyes rose slowly up, up,
to trace a yellow balloon lifted away.

In the forests where pines are thick,
a crow’s call cuts the air, sharp and quick.
Whispers drift through branches wide,
shadows twist, and creep, and hide.
The moon, like silver, stains the sky,
casting marks where shadows lie.
What stirs beneath the ancient boughs,
where darkened limbs and silence browse?
Seek the cry, both near and deep,
where the pines, their secrets keep.
In the crow’s call and the moon’s glow,
what truth awaits where shadows grow?

eyes already tired 
take me back to comfy bed
time for the weekend

The dream bark, the settling sigh
The contented plop, the brush against my thigh
The mindful gaze of the border collie eye  

The chase of the ball, the joyful flight
The chew of the bone with all her might
The joy of being within her sight  

The feel of her muzzle against my chest
Dancing a circle to create a nest
The contented shape of a dog at rest   

I am looking at the wrong week on the calendar again

You’re a dizzy sort, aren’t you?               

Casualty of boy band lute strummers 
Dashing protagonists
Cucumber sandwich scandals 
Tyrannical heat               
Overcranked corsets
Rogues in the gazebo             

Your scented Victorian lace, fanning  

Roiling in the steam 
and stress of suffocation,
I breathe in the rain.

Not just toast and eggs…no!
There were three kinds of meat
And sop, aka red-eye gravy
If one of those meats was ham
Fried potatoes, gravy and biscuits
Something sweet you say?
Honey, sorghum, jelly or jam?

The kitchen was a flurry of activity
From cooking and kids running in
To get a drink of water
From the water bucket
It froze up in the winter ya know
Hard times maybe, I guess
But those times were the best!

I don’t know how she did it
Two or three big meals a day
And everything else required
Of a farm wife
Amazing lady Mamaw was
Best years of my life!
Cherished moments in Mamaw’s kitchen