Frozen Fingers


Frozen fingers point, accuse,

indict the earth for all her crimes;

frozen hearts in Trouble’s shoes

hear the fear in Memory’s chimes.

In a world where Winter reigns,

a Narnia ‘neath wicked spell,

who but Spring’s Son breaks such chains,

melts the shackles of such hell?


Engulfed by what the wind blew in,

she shudders in her sleep;

talons of the purest ice

carve memories so deep

they wrap her in a snowy grave,

where dreams become her days;

her heart cries foul, she prays for hope,

and waits for Summer’s rays.

Remembrance Calls

The Cenotaphs beneath the snow

are rotting with the passing years,

the memories of long ago

grow dusty; meanwhile, freedom’s cheers

 are fading with the autumn’s night,

blanching like the snow that falls,

democracy may lose its right –

as we forget, Remembrance calls.


Today is a day to remember – and as the memories fade from one generation, it is our duty and privilege to pass the torch to the next…

Immersed in Gold

Immersed in gold,

A baptism of fire;

Liquified assets

Cabled by wire.

Locked in a vault,

Deposit of Kings;

Memories gilded

To last ’til the spring.


I am memorizing whatever I can from my autumn garden –  I need to deposit enough ‘gold’ to last me until spring!

Curtains are Eyelids

Image courtesy of Appropriately Frayed

Curtains are eyelids, blinking trails of rusty rain from cheeks still as panes.

Glass glows with vague reflections of  love and life long gone –

Broken promises, baby bottles,

Whispers and dreams and bumps in the night.

House peers through soul’s eyes and

Remembers it all –

Daytime delights and nighttime ghosts of

Christmases past, festooned with magical light.

Curtains are eyelids to shut out the dust.

Hollow halls are diary pages marked with happy tears and

Funerals and grocery lists;

Words on stained walls are the shell that remains.

Furniture is gone and

Footsteps no longer linger at

That last stair that always creaked.

House has been turned inside out,

Vomiting the living into greener pastures.

But curtains are eyelids and

No one can scrape away the soul

That peers wistfully from eyes of glass…