Tag Archives: writing

Quenched

Parched, dry, dusty and dying, it appeared
laying my head on my pillow and drifting into a dream.

My senses are awakened by the scent of moist earth
riding on a cool and gentle breeze through my window.

Familiar sounds, distant but remembered.
Little pelts on my roof top.

Tiny drops of an antidote for the affliction plaguing the land.
They call it drought. Earth is now quenched.

It has rained.


Tender curls

This is a fern I transplanted from the forest behind our house to my garden. The little curls remind me of children so tender and young. Unfolding into the hardy yet fragile beings we all are as adults, not suspecting a well intended gardener would come along and remove us from our comfortable place in the world to grace the entry of what will soon be a spectacular landscape. Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she? ; )


Ribbons of light

Ribbons of light bend and sway.
Never stopping until their source of energy is exhausted.
Devouring anything they are fed with a ravenous hunger.
They dance for us, enchanting us with grace and danger.
What a wonder to capture and to tame the power, the beauty, the vulnerability of flames.


Train Wreckage

I heard something today that is just sticking with me in a bad way. Actually I heard something and read something else that I am just haunted with. Two totally unrelated stories. Two human tragedies. Or tragedies in the making. I won’t delve into what they are. But I can’t help feeling like a person watching trains barreling toward each other and there is nothing I can do. Absolutely nothing in my power of doing will change events that are all but destined to occur.

The thing that haunts me most are the innocents that are along for the ride on these trains. The ones that will be damaged, irreparably, from the carelessness and selfishness of people who are themselves so damaged and broken, they can’t see beyond their own desires and need for self gratification.

I can’t change what is bound to happen, things that are out of my control. Could I, though, pray for the healing of those innocents that are in the wreckage? Is there really hope for them? Do they stand a chance in the drama unfolding? I would like to think so. But I can only hope.


May is here and Mother’s Day is just around the corner

There are days that I honestly believe that I will be found at the bottom of a huge pile of laundry knocked unconscious by the fumes of cleaning supplies. My family will realize I am missing when supper did not get cooked and the dishes are piled on every flat surface in the kitchen, toys scattered throughout the house, messes in the bathroom—unmentionable.

Seriously though, there are tons of thankless tasks and chores that moms do. All the countless moms throughout history that did what they had to do and never gave it a second thought. I’m not saying they are or were all good. There are some out there that don’t deserve the title of mother. There are even some that are not “mothers”  but serve as a mother figure to children that desperately need nurturing in their lives. Fathers have their place to be thanked, as well, but this is for Mother’s day. For the moms that keep the laundry clean and folded, wash endless amounts of dishes, change diapers and really really messy babies when diapers can’t contain it all. The moms who run errands to countless places while doing the carseat rodeo trying to latch and unlatch a frustrated toddler who only wants to get out and run around the parking lot like a screaming banshee. The moms that sweep floors 3oo times a day, vacuum until the rug is wore down to its last threads or stay up at night looking after a sick child. The moms who worry themselves gray when their newly licensed child goes out for the first time on their own. The moms of special needs children who take care of their children and give them the love, tenderness and patience that they require (they are true women of grace).  The moms that are there all hours of the night and anytime during the day ready and willing to listen to the heartbreaks, fears and troubles of adult children (or anxieties about the brand new baby that won’t stop crying—I’ve called my mom around 2:00am a few times).  The moms that do all of the above and hold down a full time/part time job. The moms who wait patiently with arms ready to embrace, as their children stubbornly ignore sound advice only to discover all the pitfalls of life that mom warned of. The moms with children who have terminal illness and the countless hours they pray to take their child’s place. The moms who have fought illness themselves and kept pressing on for their children. The moms who would put aside every ambition of their own to see their children’s dreams and ambitions come true. Thank you to those moms. You are not alone, even if it seems as though nobody around you notices or cares, you are appreciated.

My mom and my boys


My Town Part II

We walked through the downtown area of Bardstown took some pictures of some of my favorite homes. Still haven’t taken a picture of the building named for my husband’s ancestor (it is undergoing repairs).

We went to My Old Kentucky Home State park. That’s where I became disappointed. It is a pretty park, everything is well maintained, and as you walk along the brick paths you hear this constant ringing of bells playing every song that Stephen Foster composed. Maybe it was, in part, due the the headache I was developing but stubbornly ignoring in attempt to limit my intake of tylenol, asprin or my all time favorite excedrin. But the bells that were trolling from outdoor speakers around every corner were nauseating.


I love old buildings, I love to look at them and imagine what it must have been like to live when they were new and opulent. But I just can’t get passed that music. Cheesy bells playing Camptown Races, My Old Kentucky Home, Oh Susannah, over and over, bells bells bells. Ugh. I came really close to saying something to one of the park officials, but my growing head ache urged me to press on and get it over with.

Other than that I love Federal Hill itself. It’s beautiful with it’s old brick, masonry stars, and Judge John Rowan’s spring house turned law office down the hill. The boys enjoyed the walking and the boys enjoyed running around the rotunda.

We ended our day out with a stop at the library, then some fun at the park.


Oh yeah, one more thing adding to my frustration with my experience with My Old Kentucky Home. There was a lady that offered to take my picture with the kids. I was thrilled, but in the back of my mind I knew that the picture—like any other that someone takes of me with my family—would be out of focus or I would have a goofy looking face or my eyes would be closed or look like they are ready to pop right out of my head. I was right. I don’t blame her for it, it wasn’t her fault the picture was crumby. I can barely master my new camera myself let alone trying to explain it to a well intentioned stranger. So there you have it, my latest experience attempting to show you my town. The next involves bourbon, hopefully that will be a little more fun! 😉


Thinking of Autumn

Today feels like an early autumn day. The air is crisp and cool, and there is a quiet steady breeze blowing.

Here is a little something I wrote in my journal last September after lying down in grass soaking up the sun and watching the clouds (one of my favorite pass-times, when I get a chance).

Lying on the ground cushioned by the last of summer’s lush green carpet, I close my eyes.
The sun embraces me with a warm kiss on the face of her beloved child.
Letting out of breath my soul rises up toward the heavens.
From high above, I can see the earth turning golden and red;
Dotted throughout the emerald hills as the pulse of a heartbeat,
Ever changing growing older with each passing season.
I am brought back down out of my dream by the conscoiusness of my senses
As a crisp cool breath is blown upon me.
Autumn is welcoming me with his quiet steady arms.