Down in the Hollow

A little Halloween spookiness I originally posted about a year ago. 🙂

Down in the hollow

In the whispering breeze

Dark branches grip and grasp

Their knobby hands naked of leaves

Reaching and scratching

At the white stones below

The silent stones standing

Down in the hollow


Their cold, weathered faces

Peer out through the weeds

The brambles grown wild

Where paths no longer lead

Once names where there graven

But wind and rain leave few traces

Of the identities carved on

Their cold, weathered faces


No one now knows

Who beneath those stones lie

No flowery tokens are left

No tear in a remembering eye

Down in the hollow

Where the whispering breeze blows

Lie bones that once walked, who

No one now knows

Good Old Days

The good old days
Simpler times
Things, safer
People, more polite
When neighbors were friends
And everyone
Had a hand to lend

A myth
An illusion
There are no “good old days”
Nothing changes
We bemoan the loss
The theft
Of something remembered
Through the rose colored glasses
Of vanished childhood
As our parents did
And their parents before them
Every generation
Mourning a past
Simple and innocent

Those days were not
Simple and innocent
We were
As days and times do not change
We do
And mourn the loss
Of innocent selves

And children still play-
Though not the same as we
Once did-
Blissfully unaware
Of their own innocence
Until the day comes
When they, too, will look backwards
Through the blurry haze of growing up
And rue the loss
Of these
Good old days

Big Water

“Water, water everywhere…”
In image after image
That’s what came home
Nestled in memories
Captured in my camera
The Ohio River
The Tennessee Valley
The sunny, crystalline turquoise
Of the Gulf of Mexico
BIG water
To one who has lived
Forever within landlocked hills
Little rivers and tiny lakes
Dotted between
Forests and fields
Big water
Was a sight to behold
Wow factor
Surprising myself when I returned home
Finding I’d filled rolls of film
With images
Of water

But that
Is what a trip is
An exploration
A discovery
What you’ve never seen
And never even realized was beyond
Your own experience

NaPoWriMo post #18 and manicdaily‘s “Trip” prompt for Poetics on dVerse …Wish I had some of the photos I took on that trip to post with this, but they are not on my computer.

Young Love, Old Friends

You held my heart
Beating in time to your laughter
When I was but a boy
And you the girl-next-door
I felt love for the first time
Blooming in those dry summer days
Beneath a hazy sky
When stars fell
And aurora beamed
And innocence played games in the street

Time has gone
Leaving childhood days
Misty in the rearview mirror
Some faded, some embellished
But when we cross paths
In life’s twisting surreal maze
We smile
And say “Remember when…?”

The days of innocence are past
But they still remain
Tucked safely in the heart
Where young love
Becomes old friends

NaPoWriMo 2013 post #10

To Kurt

19 years ago
Of all places
In a music store, I stood
My weekly ritual
Browsing cds and cassettes
When a man walked in
Approached the store owner at the counter
“Did you hear about Kurt Cobain?
Did you hear
He’s dead?”

Those words
Like a kick in the balls
An icy chill
Spreading across my chest

“Yeah.  It’s a shame.  Such a waste.”
The owner responded
As I left
No longer in any mood
To browse cds

That night
In the shadow of my hero’s image
Posters like blood
Hanging on my bedroom walls
My brothers and I
Listening to that scratchy growl
The voice that spoke to us
Raising our beers
(Though only I was of age)
Offering the toast
We would offer again and again
In years to come

“To Kurt”

NaPoWriMo 2013 post #9 and dVerse Open Link Night #91


Shiny New Memories

He came home from his trip
Eyes full of shiny new memories
My son
With a week’s worth of stories
Days at the beach
And historic sights
In Washingtion D.C.
Laughing as he told me
How he and his cousin found
They could reach their arms
Through the tall black fence
To pluck blades of the greenest grass
From the White House lawn
“You should have brought some home!”  I laughed
What a memento that would be!
Carefully saved
Within a scrapbook
To forever remember
The look of those
Shiny new memories
In his eyes

NaPoWriMo 2013 post #7

Growing Up

At ten years old
I didn’t know
How to drive a car
Or balance a checkbook
Or that love isn’t always forever

At twenty years old
I didn’t know
How to balance a job
With going to college
Or what I wanted to do with my life

At thirty years old
I didn’t know
How to look beyond myself
Or that I was letting
My marriage slowly slip away

At forty years old
All that I know
Is that growing up
Like growing older
Is a process that never ends


For Stuart McPherson’s “Growing Up” prompt on dVerse.

A Thing of Beauty

Memories are jewels

Set in the foggy fabric of time

I keep them polished and gleaming

So that every thought of you

Is a thing of beauty

That will never fade


I originally posted this for a challenge on another blog back in April, but I don’t think that blog is active anymore.  Instead I’ll re-post it for Open Link Night #78 on dVerse.


It was my own tradition


Those few torturous years

Between a young man

Or an old child

I walked my hometown streets

Booted feet squeak-crunching on snow

Wrapped up in plaid scarf

And an old olive army coat

I walked in cold night air

Breath a sparkling mist before my face

Headphones feeding

Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker to my imagination

Street after small town street

Across Maple Avenue, up to Queen Anne’s Place

Alone I walked

The warm glow of Christmas lights

Like a shattered electric rainbow

Sprinkled against the pristine whiteness

Of lake-effect snow

And the soundless depths of evergreen

I walked for that moment


Snowflakes embracing me

The night softly humming “Silent Night” to itself

Witnessing the beauty

Of a small town Christmas

In which I and all the world around me

Were decorations


As a teenager I loved walking around my hometown on a December evening to look at all the Christmas lights and decorations.  It was always so peaceful and the lights were very pretty.  This is for the prompt on dVerse about first person perspective in poetry.

Paper Doll

I originally posted this back in March of this year, but a post by Gabbie on her blog

Tell me, when will my life begin made me decide to re-post it.


She’s a paper doll

The kind you’d like to pin up on the wall

So it seems

That questions always follow from my dreams

And where, why, who has left this paperdoll upon my door?

I see her, but my eyesight’s very poor

And I want more


She’s a paper doll

Thing’s just aren’t as obvious after all

Clinging to

All my old thoughts, while this is nothing new

Just as I reached through the hanging mist and touched the day

The day was cold and sterile anyway

And yet I stay


New feelings call from another room

And I must answer their cry soon

Or leave the paper doll

Upon the table

Ink blue eyes

On the paper doll

Pencil tears

Drawn from my eyes

Over the paper doll


-March 1992