The cruel hands of time

Why take me back
To a better place in time
When I’ll end up again
In a place I don’t want to call mine.
The same choices provide
The same heartbreak
At the cruel hands of time.

If I could fast forward
Through the place where this ends,
Would it be better
When I begin again.
What would I have missed
Lost by the cruel hands of time.

The pieces are still there
But harder and harder to find.
I hate this disease
That wields it’s sword of loss with
The cruel hands of time.

Can I be blamed
For wishing a quick end
To the long goodbye
By the slow cruel hand of time.

Another year gone by

A little over a year ago, my dad passed away. The money I inherited from him enabled me to quit my much hated job at Walmart and stay home with my husband who is in the middle stages of dementia. One of the first things I did after Daddy passed was sign up for an online art class. It was an artist who kept popping up in my Pinterest feed and I loved her work. I visited her website and discovered her classes. She is an artist who lives and teaches in a small village in France. Her name is Laly Mille if you care to google her. I loved the class and really loved getting into a new art form, mixed media. I signed up for a second class, made some more stuff I loved. This gave me the courage to start trying new things and a friend gave me a blank journal in honor of my “retirement”. The second class had me start another journal for class projects. I have since finished the first two journals and bought a new journal and the friend gifted me another one. I’m also making a junk journal with papers saved from envelopes, rescued from the trash, Gelli prints, (which is another rabbit hole to go down). I’m also using old photos and postcards, handwritten quotes by my mother and old book pages.

I’ve been having so much fun creating in the journals so I thought I would share some of my favorite pages with you. here’s the first one. In these pages, unless attributed to an author, the poems are my original writings.

Postcards, poem by Elizabeth Langley

The House Where Time Stands Still

The house where time stands still

I unlock the door and enter,
There’s no one to call to,
No one living here now,
Just the brief scent of powder
I smell as I walk through the door.
The light barely changes from season to season.
Nothing moves but dust.
The same horse moves around the pasture
I can see behind the house.
The bees come and go.
Only memories live here now.
Dinners cooked, dinners shared.
Holidays, birthdays.
Conversations deep into the night,
Deeper memories shared, history retold.
They’re all ghosts now.
I delve into the past when I visit,
Bringing life and movement when I enter.
I pull out the memories and mementos,
And relearn who these people were.
Find that connection again
Until it’s time to put everything away
And return to my life.
I lock the door and drive away,
And time stops again
In the house
Where time stands still

Postcards

down the sage highway
lingering on the edge of Tuesday,
I find a corner church
with vestments of faded crimson
and moss laden stone.
the entry with seven stone arches
hides the smoky habit
and madness of regret.
the silver river mist
lies beyond the churchyard.
I check the postcard, it’s
not today,
maybe next time.

9-13-2021

A Pirate’s Lullaby

Listen, love, and you will hear

The ocean’s lullaby.

The soothing sound

of waves rolling round

that murmurs to you and I.

The warm ocean breeze

with a soft gentle tease

inviting us to come dream:

of sailing ships and Pirates gold

and treasures of the sea.

A gull’s soft cry

sounds like a sad soul flying by,

fireflies try to outshine the moon.

Moonbeams shine and clouds hide

A silver path that slides

across the waves.

Come with me, love,

and follow that dream

all through the night,

until the sun’s morning light

Brings a new day.