Black Friday

Supplicants all to material things;
foolishly,  we’re just chasing the wind,
looking beyond for what lies within.

Plastic icons will never be real.
We spend so many minutes
looking for a better deal.

The hand that we’ve drawn
has few aces or kings,
still, we are hoping to score

a Baby Cubby or a Hatchable Wow.
We got here way early
but we missed them somehow.

The bargains are flying
straight out of the door. Empty handed
we were hoping for more.

The dealer kept the aces
close to his sleeve.  No promises made,
still, we shop and we grieve.

Finally back home, with all smiles
upside down, feeling  surly and mean,
we say it’s for sure we won’t do this again.

Who are we kidding?
We know that we will, it is a tradition
and we’re honing our skills.

Picture It:

A connector of worlds,
that window
bare of all but view.

A harmony
of plank floor,
rustic walls

and a ray of sun
across the sill.

The glass
the only boundary
that keeps the calm blue sky

and its cotton-
candy clouds
from claiming the room

where a straight-backed chair
sits alone
with its memories.

This poem was inspired by a picture at  The Power of Story blog,
a smorgasbord of wit and whimsy, scripture, prose, poetry, photography
and always, always healthy servings of humor and wisdom. You will find
the picture here…

I hope it inspires you to write your own piece of poetry or prose and  I hope you will
check out the rest of the site. The url for the site is:
The post where the picture appears is titled Windows, and dated November 22.  It is all


3:00 a.m.

The chimes are silent,
Beams break and spark
across abalone and glass.
Somewhere the sea strews bits
like these up on the shore,
whispers, hums a moving tune.

Here, there is no song.
There is no wind.
Happy hour has come and gone.
We are entombed in our own truths.

Before birds’ whistles burst again
across the dawn and this perfect silence
is broken, turn your face to the moon
and pillow your head
with dreams.

Two Steps Past Autumn

Leaves fell faster this year,
Maple, oak, calendar…
I rake them, mound them,
leaf through them
looking for childhood.

They burn in beautiful bonfires,
Sparks rise heavenward
like so many fireflies.
I travel backwards
to when I still knew how to sing.

The fire, suddenly shy
beneath a harvest moon, slips
slowly to embers.
I stir the ashes,
awaking old dreams.