Maudlin Days. (A poem)



Today I am feeling quite maudlin.
It stirs up echos in my life
mere dust clouds, wisps of faces
and places all captured here…
It is below zero outside again today
but all I can think of is how many
miles these feet have carried me
how many footprints I have stepped into
some, not quite big enough
this shadow is far from small
not tall, yet other times lagging, lumbering behind…
while other footprints that have been cast
big foot must have passed this way
and I find this shadow dwarfed and intimidated.
How many miles indeed?!  
How fragile and temporal…is there purpose? 
Sometimes it’s a Sojourner without mission or aim, 
lost out in the cold wandering around as if blind.
These are maudlin days, 
yet I sense a Sun rise just on the next horizon. 

Summer dreams (A poem)


In the bliss of winter’s frozen kiss
as Ice is formed, abrasive and painful
an Angel with wings unfurled
left her mark in the mounds of silky snow.

I do not know what transpired there
as some walk by and some don’t care
But I’m almost sure I glimpsed heaven’s door
looking out from my frosted window.

With rooftops coated white and wisps of smoke
dancing or escaping elegantly into the crisp atmosphere
I remain here, tightly bundled, blanketed train behind me
perfectly content to let the days of winter kiss another
but not my cheek, nor these feeble hands
I am a child of summer weighted down by this
absence of her soft warming embrace.

And for now…I bide my time.

“Seasons” (A Poem)


In the late autumn,

when trees have discarded


 and we

 have put them on

chasing down the rising dawn

while snow and rains,

claim within us a shiver…or two;

blanketed between soft cottons

and goose feathered downs

we dream perhaps of warmer days

when sunsets lingered and

the choirs of bulbous bull frogs

and field crickets, mahogany in color,

perform in their nightly stridulation

an encore, now sorely missed.


Miles away,

down dusky shadows

Of winding country roads

Enveloped in dust and mud,


Moated and armed

with Barbed-wired

rusting fences…

the brontide sounds of protest

echo and reverberate,

as a dying summer storm collides

and swirls. 

Clouds, dark and foreboding,

curtain the sky as summer

exhales one last staggering breath.

Tears descend

upon the earth,

dampening  the soil

with one last frosted kiss goodbye…

soon, an ushering in of

new birth will meet

us again. 



Before the birth of dawn

Late last night

Under covers – down,

joined by the purring

At my feet

Acting out something

I cannot remember now

From fluttering eyelids and

Speech that sounds like snoring…

I swear I don’t snore 😉 .

Perhaps as the blood red

Alarm clock glowed,

And as ticks, sighs,

groans of our

Restless house

Wound itself into

The arms of early

morning.  The clouds

In the birthing

Room of another

Brood of sunrise

Yet just before

The final ‘push’,

The last cry of

Nightfall’s curtain


Of miles away bursting

Through the Rockies

Days before its

Winter’s lips

Kissed frosted earth

Bending spruce and ferns

Into a deep embrace

Only to pick up again

Skirting the Black hills

And Lincoln’s chin

Rushing on down

towards the mighty

Mississippi, as ice bergs

Smaller than those that

took down the titanic

Weave their way into

The heart’s arteries of


As it touches down once

again, the mighty river

ebbs to the beckoning call…

back in our home

still sorting out visions

with eyes clasp shut

It rushes down onto our

our creaking home…

Its winter’s clutch

testing storm windows

pushing at the screen door

somewhere deep inside


Dorothy Gale tries to click her

heels, as Toto barks on…

it happens quickly,

yet Oz doesn’t come into


the birthing room announces

another fire branded day

is here…both Lincoln’s chin

and the mighty Mississippi

breathes collective sighs of relief

as the cries of a new born day


In the winter

Coating the earth, dormant

Tree tops bowing heavy

Protested by the birds above

And the residence of squirrels

Perched in holes near the thicket

Of pine needles bursting forth in all directions

The sound of breaking glass or

Crinkle chips under foot as we

Wander out in the still evening

Crisp, below freezing the wind

Whispers on the cusp of the new

Snow just fallen. the whisper

The nagging reminder that it has begun

The race has started,

The doldrums of early sunsets

And dark midnight’s solemn chorus

Howls in frost bitten ears;

Perhaps this time I should have worn

my stocking hat…but ah

This season of frost and snow

Beckons me onward and I

Break the unseen underfoot

Blanketed until the melt of

early spring…when life renews

its hibernation and these ears

stop protesting the bitter breath of winter.


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