With folded hands she sat at the table, the one facing lush woods pressed against the landscape like it had been painted in place. Sleep had not touched her eyes for two days, since that man in the deputy’s uniform had knocked on her door, removed his hat, and said the terrible words that had never crossed her mind. It was his job and she wondered if he slept at night.

Butterflies flew against the window and some were smashed on impact to flee the sunlight, some did not and she wondered at the cessation of life and why such beautiful creatures of nature would do such an unremarkable thing to cease life. Life was so precious. She’s sat in the cane-back chair for a long while now and didn’t know what to do next. A lady at the church called and told her to pray and everything would be all right–in time.

She pushed her graying hair back into a bun and tied it close to the back of her neck with a rubber band, twisted like. She felt old; she was old. Her hands were wrinkled with brown spots, from working in the garden, and veins scattered the tops and sides of the skin. She turned over her hands and stared at them as if seeing them for the first time.

“Liddy,” a male voice called from the porch affronting the lake. “Are you in there? It’s nigh to sunset and you need to go lie down before too long, you’ll need rest.”

She turned and rushed to the door and unlatched the key, then stopped. Her feet were weighted to the floor. The door finally swung open. “Is that you? Don’t stay in the shadows, let me see you.” she said.

Weathered boards of the screened-in porch creaked under weight and her eyes searched for an image, any image that would tell her she wasn’t mad. No one was there and she was alone with the whippoorwills that usually came to sing to her before dark. Never, in her recollections had she known them to sing in daylight, always twilight. She shook her head this way and that searching for anything that would tell her the voice was not imagined. Her voice was low pitched. “I hear cemetery birds not whippoorwills; they heed not the time of day.”

After silence, her head nodded and she went to the screen door and looked scanned the lake and back to the porch. Slow steps dragged her feet toward the bedroom, she kicked off her house slippers and lay on the simple, double bed in her small, plain room void of pictures. An old black telephone startled her and she reached to the night stand and unplugged it.
Staring at the ceiling, she caught the scent of Old Spice Cologne and relaxed as she saw the other bed pillow opposite hers. It had the indented space like it held the weight of a person’s head. Her face was flushed, as she hugged the edges of the pillowcase. Her fingernails pinched the edges of the worn cotton. Hair askew, she breathed in life and closed her eyes. “You’re right, I’ll need rest,” she whispered. “The officer was wrong. You never went anywhere. He must have you mistaken for someone else. I am so relieved.” She heaved a sigh. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll not dress for bed, I’ll lie right here with you and later when you get hungry I can fix our evening meal.


Image  —  Posted: May 19, 2016 in Uncategorized


And it came to b
a lone woman on a desolate road,
feet bare a-trod graveled stones
that pierced her skin & core.

she did not mind cuts
she did not mind hunger
she did not mind echoes & silence
she did not mind an unknown destination

and there upon the road she viewed
a weeded wasteland where nothing grew,
save for a barren, blackened soil of weeds

Winds blew to & fro
& a storm arose, of such magnitude
that she sought shelter; she shivered
& viewed a partially hidden culvert

It was rusted with a dark & damp within
It was neglected & she knew-- 
It was alone, as she; both had a common connection

She did not mind tears & soft rain on cheek
She felt peace with it & looked upward
She viewed storm clouds with much power
She dragged her knapsack & crawled inside

And it came to b that her tears dried & she
hugged tighter to herself--she was at peace.
The storm grew stronger & the ground shook

She was unafraid--voices in her head silent.
She, in darkness, saw light
She, alone, felt peace.

And it came to b, the sun shone bright.
Wooded carts, pulled by oxen, passed the road.
One labor shouted to stop to relieve himself.
And in the weeds he glimpsed-- 

The culvert & something, he did not know.
The laborer parted dry grass & discerned a woman
The match, retrieved from pocket, illuminated throughout

He was afraid, yet touched the form
It was damp & cold without pulse
& he called to the wagon for assistance.

Other labors retrieved a lifeless form with a knapsack
In her fingers was clutched a cross on a chain
Tight to b pried away; one kind laborer
Placed it around her neck & smoothed black, rustled hair.

An abandoned church--the man pointed
"It is not far, we should carry her there
& pray for her soul. Our Father doth know her, while we know not. 
We bury her in the cemetery behind."

The laborer carried her in his arms & thought
of his sisters. Someone would bestow kindness
upon them, he prayed silently for their safety.

And it came to b, days passed & the laborer walked
the graveled road & stopped to place a flower
upon the unknown woman's grave--Astonished,
he removed his hat, with bent head in reverence.

Life had sprung forth; what once was barren flourished
Death,life, rain, perhaps tears bestowed flowers upon barrenness
All road sides & beyond encircling the weathered church.

And the laborer knelt at the unmarked grave.
And the man made the sign of the cross.
A wood marker, he would carve;
for she would not b alone.

Photography: Beach Flowers

Posted: November 7, 2017 in Uncategorized

I post a lot of pix on Instagram & this one from the beach has been one of a lot that I loved. Fascinating, for me, were the flowers layered beneth the ones near the surface– Different varieties.

Life:  Small-Town Charm

Posted: May 25, 2017 in Uncategorized

In small towns, you meet interesting people. Everyone has a story to tell and Lynn did.Lynn is a fifty-five-year old widow, slender, tan, blonde, and alone. She walks the back streets in a modest sub-division like clockwork. She has no driver’s license yet owns a truck, car, and home.

She lives entirely on a widow’s Veteran check and has three dogs. She’s college educated and walks with her legs wrapped in one black- band, the other flesh colered. At times, I wondered why she had no close friends to-speak-of, when she’s clearly intelligent. She loves her neighbors and stops briefly to check on some.

Lynn admits to a beer now and then, and is opinionated without apologies. Aside of that, she’s a giving person of sage advice; although, she’s never seeks approval or popularity. It’s Lynn’s way and that’s all right, because of the confidence she exudes with that blonde head held high. She’s strong and a survivor. I undersand. Best of luck to her…


Posted: January 29, 2017 in life

Reality refreshes itself
amidst exertions & challenges,
striving to believe in humans
without knowledge of truth
or the willingness to exert
right against wrong.
Truth is a shining, shooting star
of brilliance & success…
Oft times
Making itself known
Tired & restless
Ere the sun appears
Upon a new day:
Reflex backward without pity
for the wrong doers,
for they know what they do.
Lost souls you cannot reconstruct.

Wandering: Graffiti

Posted: August 5, 2016 in Wandering


Graffiti has always fascinated me. At train crossings, waiting for endless boxcars to pass, I used to see the most beautiful creations of art. There’s a lot of time to think while sitting in the car. I wondered about the artists who were skilled enough to paint such amazing collages on rusty metal, old metal, new metal, and what sort of lives they led. I could imagine them painting in the dark by flashlight, since obviously this would not knowingly be allowed in daylight. It took me to another world. And then the train ended with the reds, blues, and neon colors gone in a blur.

Recently, on my wandering and hiking in the mountains, I came upon a one lane tunnel in South Carolina. Mesmerized, I saw graffiti in a backwoods town where time moves slow and slower. Maybe the artists were young, old, or just wandering like I was. They could have thought they had all the time in the world to create, be young, be old, live forever. As the quote goes: “In the midst of life we are living; in the midst of life we are dying.” It’s the in-between that we live. Nevertheless, graffiti is a salvation to some and its electric colors splash light into a confusing world.


Poetry: Wilderness Abyss

Posted: May 19, 2016 in Uncategorized

Into an abyss you crawled
Unfamiliar with the lay of the land.
Fingertips nil and
Skin void of flesh; warm blood
Trickled along
Clam shards on a wall of stench.
As you search for light
That doesn’t exist-you hesitate.
Not a good idea at the time
Too late, for the ledge you stand on
begins to crumble and all you
see is water and rocks below
you chose the wrong morning
to check out the new trail
where the flowers you had
to have were located.