First published by Jean Monday, May 09, 2011
you are not old
who still sees
beauty:
in a smile
older than yours
or a tree that casts
no shade or
a home with peeling paint
or a lone flower in a weedy bed,
in a threadbare quilt of patches,
a day whose only music
is a birdsong or
someone humming
in the kitchen.
Jean is a regular contributor; here's a couple more works she submitted.
from: 8-30-2024
haiku… me…
I think I'm smarter
than the world has found out yet.
Won't they be surprised.
from: 5-1-2008
haiku… Choices…
I couldn't decide.
I waited too long for you
to make up my mind.
First published July 21, 2008
stay with me
as I need you most
more than any other
in the present ever.
allow what is in me
to be
awake and seeing
all I am and have.
First published June 29, 2008
and there I see,
in you, and therefore
bring to me,
much love and
hope and reasons
why
this life, today, is
worth more time
and not yet ready, in
spite of grief, to stop
and say good-bye.
First published October 5, 2008
Elizabeth's sister
isn't the same anymore.
Her husband went to war.
He came back whole
but aching inside.
He sits in shadow
and cries.
"There's no one left." says he.
"I'm still here." says she.
"I can hear their pain."
"Your son wants to play."
"This isn't what he should see."
"We want you at home. Please,
don't leave us alone."
"I'll be back when I can."
The door closed.
Elizabeth's sister
isn't the same anymore.
She sits in shadow.
And cries.
First published June 2, 2008
a memory never was
but wished for.
dreams will never see
light of day.
tomorrow will be emptier
without one.
eventually,
everything goes away.
First published Sept 15, 2006
"We write, in part, the words we need to read."
.... Rebecca McClanahan, Write Your Heart Out
My words are my children,
nurtured from conception to maturity,
from thought to page.
They are what (all) I have to leave behind,
to let someone know I was here.
The mark I leave.
One proof of my life's worth.
They talk back to me, make me laugh.
They explain me, comfort me, as I grow old.
First posted: July 17, 2008
I think about you
almost never
these days.
much less than
once in a while.
funny that, don't
you think, all
those tears
washed my eyes
and let me see,
there is, after all,
life after left over.
there will be
a time
when we die
that others
will say
it happened so fast
so unexpected.
when in truth
the soul had been
crying
for ever so long
praying for comfort
for healing the wounds
that drained
the life
from the life
that could have
been saved.
But no one
noticed. or heard.
or cared.
How sad.
could not love you
more if I tried
and there is no trying
to love you
as much as I do.
probably other people
just as kind, good, strong
as you
but I don't love them
just you.