revelation by morning’s light

Have you ever realized how tiny your world is? In the flow of billions of lives, yours is simply slipped into an open spot. The flow continues on, oblivious to your presence. Uninterrupted. 

We awaken, each morning, to a sun that informs us that it’s daytime. We sleep when it falls from the sky. Between those points, we toil. We do things which allow us to continue within the flow. Working for money to feed into a system that would run just as well without us. Yet, we allow ourselves to believe that our money gives us a certain status within the flow; that it elevates our value. What an extremely human thing it is to imagine that we are of any value, whatsoever, in the never ending flow. 


As days come and go, we age out of the flow. At last, attaining a bit of wisdom. Wisdom that allows us to step away, and consciously  observe the ceaseless push of Life. It seems as though it always comes too late, that. By the time we recognize our place, as tiny and unimportant as it is, the flow begins to pass us with the momentum of times, long past, propelling it ever forward. 


In our last days, when the sun is dim to our eyes, we understand that we could have stepped away from the flow any time we’d wanted, had we only had the courage to do so. We watch, as it continues on, right before our eyes. We see our children, and theirs, having taken their place in the mighty river of humanity, and we tell them what we’ve learned, and we pray that they find the courage that we never found. But the flow is raging on, and they are happily caught within it. Like us, they are hopeful, and overtaken by the urge to elevate themselves above the others. They value reality as they perceive it, blissfully unaware that they, too, are but a tiny speck, caught up in that which younger hearts cannot perceive and that older hearts cannot bear. 


I realize that this thought is neither new, nor original. It is what it is: The first time that my eyes, heart, and soul, have had the courage, at long last, to step away. It is my time to observe. In short days, it will be my time to move on, offering up my place to the next human to fill it.

a place up the road


She stands alone, ivory hand extended to anyone who might hold it tight

For there’s a storm all ’round her, perhaps the others can’t see, that rages by day and by night 

She stands and she waits, in fear that the storm is much stronger than it was yesterday 

But, after a while, her fear turns to dreams of letting it all slip away

Life is not worth much to her now that she’s old and alone

Friends come around, yet nobody stays, so she thinks she might pack up and go

There was once a place, across the street, that she’s visited once or twice

But she’s heard there’s a place, just up the road, that’s said to be equally nice

This place up the road is a scarlet dream, well equipped for the longest stay

When you knock at the door and extend your hand, you’ll not be turned away 

in the night 


In the night, I rage

Fighting the demons that lie in wait behind peaceful dreamscapes 

They’ve nothing more to do than stare into the me…into the you

Gorging on grief 

They stare, and they think, and they know and they wait 

In the Darkness, I rage

The stench of sacrifice, rancid and dead, permeates my being 

As machine gun thoughts riddle my tired mind

They laugh at me 

Through visions of your smile…your touch

They mock and sneer

Making ready for the Taking

As though they’ve not yet taken quite enough

a heart that won’t forget

She’s still in love with you
You are her man and she lives to be your woman

She still tells herself lies about you

That they never hurt her…those things that you’d do

And, every night, she lays her head on your pillow

For just a moment or two

In case a tiny whiff of your essence remains

In case she wakes and it was all just a dream

In case life with you wasn’t as hard as it seemed 

Mother’s Day

When I think of Mother’s Day, so many things come to mind. Being abandoned by my own mother is something that still weighs heavily on my heart, even after the many long years since we reconciled. But, it’s not on my account that it burdens me. It’s because my mother still feels an overwhelming sense of guilt…and that just kills me inside.

I’m not the sort to hold grudges. I’m also not blind to the fact that I carry traits that I wouldn’t, had my parents kept me. But things went south so quickly, and the tidal wave of pain that nearly took my mother’s life back then changed both of our lives forever. It couldn’t be stopped and, once the ink was dry on the adoption papers, nothing could save either one of us from what was to come. My father is the only one unscathed, and that was only because he loved his secret more than he loved my mother and me.

Every Mother’s Day, I write a poem or an essay for Mom. I try to help her understand that I have nothing against her and that all was forgiven many years ago. It just never quite sinks in. She’s spent my entire adult life trying to make it up to me. I cannot say how much I hate that she thinks she has to. I also hate how she thinks I’d have been a better person, had she raised me. But, she reassures me that she loves me like I am, and I leave it at that. 

This day also reminds me of when things were good between Ben and I. I think of how he’d rush home, covered in oil after a long day’s work, and still make it to every game the boys had. I remember how much he loved our sons, and how they looked at him like he was a God when they were young. I never minded not being the favorite parent. I was more like a great baby sitter when they grew old enough that homemade cookies couldn’t fix their troubles. I never really had a clue how to be a mother, I only knew what not to do. Thankfully, it worked out in the end, because of their father.

On Mother’s Day, I always remember how the boys would pick those little weeds that look like tiny lilys, and bring them to me by the dozens. Dirty lil hands holding them just so…a kiss on the cheek when I bent down to receive the lovely gift. They smelled so good. They’re still my favorite flowers. Weeds, or not. I’d always put them in this beautifully hand cut sherry glass that I found at an antique shop. It was the perfect vase for the most precious flowers I’ve ever received, before or since.

Mother called me this morning. She was taking Dad to my grandmother’s grave today. She said,”Can’t you just feel her with you sometimes? She feels so close to me today.” I told her that the only time I feel her presence is when I’m waking from a night terror, as they have followed me through adulthood and, now, into old age. I don’t have room in head, nor heart, for that beast of a woman, nor do I intend to make room. Sometimes, the dead need to be left to themselves. 

I’m going to go enjoy the rest of the evening. I look forward to tomorrow. Monday. Just plain Monday. 

Sleepless In Mayberry 


I can’t sleep tonight. It’s a lovely night to be awake, though. The thunder comes and goes, the sky pours, but only long enough to catch my attention. Then, as quickly as it came, the storm moves on, leaving behind its delicate remains. A chill in the air makes me wax nostalgic, as I sit near the window listening to the faint sounds of rain as gentle as angel’s wings.

I light a cigarette and reminisce about happy times. Mostly, thinking about my sons when they were small. I miss their little sticky handed hugs and kisses that left jelly in my hair, as they squeezed me as hard as their lil arms could, and watching them swinging in the tire swing that hung from the oak tree in our backyard. There is so much to recall, and so much, forgotten; memories caught up or cast aside in the ebb and flow of life. 

I remember my wedding day and my beautiful dress. I seem to have lost track of it, somehow. I used to get it out, now and then. It represented everything I ever wanted. In many ways, it still does. Who doesn’t want to dress up like a princess and run off to start a new life with the man of your dreams? 

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the possibility of growing old alone. I’m not afraid to, but I see no point in it. As bad as things went with Bennie, part of me still wants to take a chance and fall in love again. It would be nice to take care of someone…to keep him happy. There is one who I have a pretty big crush on, but I don’t think he feels the same way. Is having a crush a thing anymore? My Gawd…I’m old. 

I guess I should go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps dreams will come to offer signs to guide me. I’m not doing such a great job of that, myself. 

Etc., And So On…

I’ve spent far too much time on FB today, reading about almost nothing but strife between the races. Per my norm, I don’t attack individuals, but I do ask a lot of questions. This is always met with racists, blacks, Mexicans, and whites who wish they were any race but white. Liberals, one and all. 

Most of my FB friends know I had two extra sons who were black. One was an addict, the other was mentally ill, but he was a thinker. I hate to say that, of the two, the one I loved most was D, the thinker. And I really hate to consider that he and I would have been on opposite sides of this racial situation. D was proud to be southern, extremely proud of his Texas roots, but I think he’d be an the side of Antifa. 

D passed away two years ago, last Halloween. One car fatality accident. His beautiful wife died one month before him, on the same road, in the exact same way. D and I had a lil fallout before he died. It was over a racial issue. We only talked a few times after. I’ll go to my grave hating myself for that. I shouldn’t have taken such offence to what he’d said. All this chatter on FB, of all things, reminds me that two people who love one another, like family, can be separated over things like race and politics. Sometimes, that idea is more than I can bear. 

I think I’m going to avoid FB politics for a little while. Just stay in my lane…a lane which is not occupied by psychotic liberals. The people in my lane are good hearted and kind and funny; they’re people I would like to meet, one day. 

I must admit to being caught by surprise by the way liberals behave now. When I was young, they wanted peace and freedom. Today, they’re tyrannical and violent. That’s what happens when you praise everything a child does, and don’t enforce any discipline, while raising that child in a culture that has become almost completely amoral. I used to feel sorry for liberals, until they showed us who they really are in the hateful, fascist, children they raised. It’s quite clear that they are so accustomed to following the crowd that most aren’t even sure what they hate. But, hate they do! We’ll have to wait and see how well that works out for em…

Scarlet Night

There are times when night wraps itself around this place like a mink stole, draped about the shoulders of an old school beauty queen. It quiets my soul and I allow myself to lean into its comfort. Eyes closed, I recall those things that once pleased me. I’m caught up in memories of you…

It feels as though forever lives behind closed eyes. My mind, a slave to memories and imaginations, cannot define where you end, and I begin. Not as much soul mates as we are familiars, still we dance on throughout time, as though we never parted…as though no one else ever existed. Behind us, a backdrop of velvety scarlet punctuates the cravings within us. Shadow upon shadow dancing at our side, we move on through the night. 

Eyes open to the beat of my racing heart. Your scent lingers as though you were really there. I rise and draw tight the blinds, returning to my bed, praying for visions of you. They won’t come to me by day; they never do. So, with a sigh, I begin the waiting for another scarlet night with you.

Nightfall In Mayberry 

It’s been a long, strange, day. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s slightly different in the atmosphere here in Mayberry…in my little universe. Something quietly ominous tinges the evening air, lending a weight to it that I’m not accustomed to. 

I feel a bit unhinged lately, anyway. Things in my life are very off kilter. I keep comparing myself to an old version of me, and I realize I could never live up to those standards now. I wish I could forget old things and embrace change. I admire those types who run, arms open, into life. Why are they like that? It’s difficult to understand. Perhaps we simply see life differently. Or, maybe, there are so many parallel universes stacked on top of each other that our difference in perception comes from occupying two different worlds, altogether, simultaneously. 

Sometimes, I wish I could skip worlds. Start over as myself, but a better version. If I could create a new me, I’d make sure to equip myself with memories that leave when it’s their time…a heart that can’t be broken and eyes that won’t cry. I’d give myself one superpower. That would be the power to freeze the best times, so that I could relive them whenever I’d like. That would be perfect. 

I guess I’ll eat supper and take a shower. It’s getting late in the evening and night has settled in. I think that I’ll embrace it, as it is, and try to leave this feeling in my gut for tomorrow.