Me.

Me.

I was different

Busy

Anxious

Overachieving but never quite arriving.

I was alone

Nervous

Willing

Looking at the world around me with dismay.

I am me

Busy

Anxious

Nervous

Willing

Not quite alone but teetering.

Waiting for grace.

Two little cousins at Grandmas’

as posh as girlies could be,

were having an afternoon splendid,

in the pantry with biscuits and tea.

 

The feast was pronounced to be ready,

and morsels disbursed to each guest,

so Grandma returned to her kitchen,

her slippers finally at rest.

 

When above the tinkling of teacups,

said the more spiritual of the two,

shouldn’t they wait for grace,

 the proper thing to do.

Silence enveloped the pantry,

Grandma smiled into her tea,

If  Grace were really coming, said  the other,

where could she possibly be?

 

©vcletkeman

If I Should Sing~

If I should sing~
What would be the song?
If it were joy, who would hear it?
If it were grief, who could bear it ?
Perhaps a ditty,some would share it.
If I should sing.

For in the song~
 The world expands,
And grasps what 'er the song demands,
From folk or swan or torch or psalms,
If I should sing.

 

Forgive Me if I Mourn

Forgive me if I mourn.
Sorrow always makes room for one more.
Tragedy's cup is always brimming.
Spilling on the unsuspecting.
Dignity lost ~ I stoop to wipe the splatter
~ of a relationship that is no more.

I am not a Writer.

I am not a writer~
Oh, I have stones crammed inside my head, bursting, like an abandoned trunk of old forgotten valuables left to expire in the dusty attic ~but I am not a writer.                                                      

I am a holder~holding the stones of childhood memories, sibling quests, love gained and lost, birth pangs and the fool's gold of age. I hold the stones, smooth to my caress ~but I am not a writer.

Getting Old~

 

Getting old~
Like a shoe that has
lost it's stitching.
Flapping in the effort of hobbling down the path.

Without Regret.

As the evening shadows gather~There are things that I would rather~do than spend the twilight with regret.
 I would rather ponder sunrise~
from the perch of gloomy star eyes~ casting gloom and greeting dawn without a fret.