Clock On The Mantle

The clock on the mantel struck
Half past ten, the hour to retire
For most women and men.
I listened to the clock, heard a
Knock on the door – I looked!

No one was there. Half past two
Still awake with nothing to do.
Half past four I fell asleep,
Forgetting the mother I had
Expected to come through the

A gust of wind blew through
The window, death came in
With a shroud on his face,
Coming to take me – not yet was
My plea, I have more to do,
Much to undo.

Death agreed to let me stay,
He gathered his cloak about him
And went on his way.
I suddenly awoke, knowing this
Was but a dream!

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Crushed Violets

With a very relentless winter flowers are late with their charming
faces but ever faithful to rise again!

“Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it” Mark Twain

They lie withered, blue violets pressed
to the ground
Trodden under foot by humanities’
Leaves of green streaked with
Bleed from the offender’s frown
Children’s breaths are hushed
their spirits crushed
Oh little ones, you have died only
to rise anew
Sweetly sleep in your humble tombs
until again you bloom

The empty room . . .

With a houseful of rooms,
spring cleaning can be challenging, often leaving the one we have been reluctant to enter the last one!

Each time I walk into this room it is strangely quiet
bare and empty, but for a few pieces of old furniture
old and worn
the windows are closed without a breath of air, tired
and lonely from memories and cares it has refused to

It is in mourning, quiet and still, portraying a lack of
honesty and wearing a costume of despair
whenever I venture in, it is hard to leave, locked inside
with its loneliness and self defeat

One day I looked in a room beside it with some
pictures on the wall, a bed and dresser and a chest
of hope and I offer to share with this lonely room

Gradually pulling the drapes, cleaning with a little
water and soap

The two rooms are slowly coming together, shifting
their weight, holding each other, no longer lonely
but a home of its own!

Little Toy House

With Spring having come, we often get the urge to do some spring cleaning!

Cleaning house – And sometimes cleaning memories seeking better days to come!

Little toy people playing

In their home pretending

They are happy but

Feeling all alone.

Toy mother and father

Playing their rolls they

Can see out but no one

Can see in.

Little toy furniture a bed

And couch but no one could

Rest too much noise and


There is no table or cupboard

For there is no food the little

Tea set is shattered along with

The child.

We get in the little toy car and

Move right along from place to

Place but we won’t stay long

Stopping here and there just

In case.

Hanging onto memories

too scared to let go

Searching for a home

For one that evades this child

Who plays the role in the little

Toy house.

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Happy Arbor Day

Falling on the last Friday of April!

What does he plant who plants a tree?

He plants cool shade and tender rain, And seed and bud of days to be, And years that fade and flush again, He plants the glory of the plain, He plants the forest’s heritage, The harvest of a coming age, The joy that unborn eyes shall see, These things he plants who plants a tree.

Excerpt from the ‘Heart of the Tree’ by Henry Cuyler Bunner
‘Many plant a tree in memory of a loved one’

The Visitor . . .

“Marching by – Each carrying a pail of memories – I realize they are a part of me”

A candle in the
window burns in the eve,
as I knock faintly then
turn to leave.

Then the handle begins to
turn, and a voice invites
me in,
guiding me through a
hallway, dark and grey.

There are pictures on the wall,
almost as if they are of me,
from a small child to a girl,
who is now grown and tall.

Another door before me
opens slowly, as I peer in,
there is a room so grand with
an hourglass of passing sand.

A chair sits in the middle
and I take a seat.
There are some little ones,

I ask them come near that we
may meet.

Marching by, they are forlorn,
with garments ripped and torn,
each bearing a pail of memories.
Looking at them I realize they
are part of me.

I give them love,
wash their faces and clean
their shoes, but these things
are not enough and will not do
They respond –
“Please, we are tired and would
find peace and rest. Letting
go of your anxious thoughts
would be best.”

I now see, these children I
have ignored, have been with
me through life’s difficult tests.
Now it is time, as they ask, to
let them rest.

Paper Dolls . . .

A Spring time reflection!

The poppy flower is known for its paper tissue – like petals!

Every morning I visit the
where the pleasant summer
flowers once grew
the daisies with their
sunshine faces
and lily white petals
until there was a meadow
full of paper
dolls dancing in the middle

And when I had mourned the autumn days when they had all gone to sleep I was given the promise –
not weep
for each have saved a pocket
full of seed”

And paper dolls once again will dance in the breeze!

Sandbox of time . . .

Good Sabbath Morning!

Life is like a sandbox, an hour glass of sand swiftly passing, with a day each week to rest and reflect, to play and spend glorious times together . . .

Each week they had a special day to meet. Having such a good time together, playing and laughing, building sand castles with kings and queens and every imaginable thing.

One day she became too busy and forgot their special day. And now her bucket is too heavy and her shovel is filled with holes. Sand sifts through her fingers having no place to go!

“Don’t forget My Sabbath day of rest
Book of Exodus

My yoke is easy and my burden is light”
Book of Matthew