Jubilation

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May 11, 1997

Mother’s Day
1997, a year of jubilation.
A son is born, he looks like his daddy,
offers annoyed looks like his grandpas,
and loves fiercely like his momma.

Family swarms, bluest of eyes smile
he wears Elmo, wants tractors
plays with cowboy Woody,
and completes with ZZ Top for coolest sunglasses.

Sat perfectly in our arms,
long limbs, this boy will be tall
best kisses given
he’d grow into the name Craig Paul

Aunts and Uncles learning, and playing house
first grandchild, those people are adoring,
offer mom and dad a chance to sneak out,
everyone making up for lost time and possible past failings

Growing appears tricky, doctors arrive
Time, we’re told, is on the tough side of fleeting,
quality of life, imperative,
Cockayne Syndrome stealing

With the right one, five years is never enough,
gift from God to teach us,
our minds swarm with lessons learned,
taking each day to move forward with many a celebration, he’s a big brother now, and his name is Mason.

Today, we remember the year 1997 as jubilation.

Structure

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at first, the logistics were tricky,

a desire for distance was universal, 

a commonality existed, 

so they leaned into progression.

structure set by those well informed, and steadfast,

support deemed imperative,

while overwhelmingly consistent,

whispers of beauty were allowed.

a common goal set, the trajectory – forever,

for some.

– Learning –  

a collection of photos and poems.

Philosophy

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With a path laid out before us, chosen,

and for us to decide, we wrestle.

Life tugs us left and then right.

Experience breeds new thoughts; opportunities abound.

We touch, and its impact changes us.

What is is as hard as concrete, yet many believe in its fluidity. Leaving many to question reality.

Challenging our spirit.

Does life call us, or do we call upon life?

The beauty, I believe, settles upon how well we listen.

-Learning-

a collection of photos and poems.

It Was Me

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either way, we’ve all learned
and it’s been a year.
Saffron and Amber reveal their dress,
I sit and wonder how it’s possible, Winter,
how beauty presents as a mess, yet is defined by the eye.
Dirt needs its rest, leave the weeds, even
a fixed tin roof allows for dry, so
let nature grow – haphazardly.
Disrobe the world, let them be,
focused on how to heal.
Honestly? He didn’t really need me.

Always, Love

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Sometimes people don’t realize what they’ve been offered, is room to grow,

space to breathe, heal, try something new, make decisions, and even complete final drafts.

Care: It isn’t always a verb. ‘Tis also a noun. The provision towards what is necessary; to apply consideration to a situation to avoid further damage or risk.

The beauty in love – space to grow – is in the offer to step aside in hopes of growth succeeding. Knowing full well everything may change, and we no longer matter.

Trust is felt, and when it isn’t given in return, we sense the void – feel the lack of – quite like someone’s arms length we clung to for years knowing we shouldn’t.

Love is the color of amber, to me, quite like every color squeezing in together, without erasing one for another in hopes of a happy ending.

Healing

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Our compassion comes from a place of empathy,
or at least it should.
Who are we if we don’t wish the very best for someone?
Trials greet us when we’re not  looking, sinking us  into new depths.
Gratitude overwhelms the healing pieces of us, and it is there we should bow.
Humbled.
Nature nurtures, realize this at the very least, smile and allow the comfort as it exhales its release.

Sense of Direction

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The summer rain has painted fields of sunflowers
and the August breeze cools the brow.
67 degrees in the Sandhills, and nobody can explain how.

Wheat with a sense of adventure has been brushed in for effect,
and life gets interesting
just beyond the hills,
as I hear, “You haven’t been over there yet.”

Push past the state line, skys bluer than azure await,
there’s small horse towns ’bout every 8 miles,
and remember, “When you leave, shut the gate.”

Fuel isn’t getting any cheaper, and time waits for no one,
so dismiss all the reasons why one shouldn’t,
smell the damp dirt, allow it to slide through your fingers, let the wind send it.

Press the pedal on the right, bite your lip, and
appreciate the sound of your giggle,
the prairie weaves over and under –
everything beyond here matters,
and you’re not getting any younger.

Govern

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the source:
reason for one’s distraction

out here beyond the familiar, I escape.
ponder what it must be like
to go and wander,
past where bridges lie, and
to a place my feet welcome;
a path unrecognizable to my soul.
my mind allowed freedom
as I see myself pushing back against a warm summer breeze.
nightfall is yet to be seen, yet the week is already before me.
stillness becomes evident, while the sky slowly burns across Midwestern hues.
I sense maybe you’re listening, so
I offer this plea –
challenge me, but don’t leave.

The Climb

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despite what looms around her,

the past
the expectations
the privilege
the power
the beauty
the silence
she chooses to try.


she begins at the bottom,
alone – yet, her
confidence is exposed as petals stretch.
amethyst her signature,
and starlet her pose,
the climbing inevitable, but
she’s worth it,
and you know.

Yours, Audrey

Loss

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when the call comes
time stands down
knees buckle
wind escapes the very breath I needed to speak.
a cry from within –
within me – it shocks,
shocks the very core of my being, a result
everyone warned me of feeling deep inside,
but then regret:
the regret of putting off
everything I should have said when it still mattered.
the searching begins
the desire for proof –
proof we existed together in this world
making the memories we shared valid,
meaningful and somehow important.
but then the awareness arrives,
becoming fully aware
eyes wide open,
there is nothing here to prove our connection;
my love.
lacking tangible evidence of a bond created out of a deep need to feel a part of something I lacked,
is the torture I, until today, didn’t realize I would be living with now forever.

Pursuit

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dreams surround a homesteading such as this,
no amount of work could persuade them to leave.
his heart was given so long ago, and the farm has held on ever since.

the birds sang quite rightly the day she pulled in,
the tire was giving her fits.
when he took his cap off and extended his hand,
his eyes caused hers to lift, amused by the pink shade of shy she wore with her smile, he let off on his farmer’s tight grip.

hard became harder as sunsets created do-overs, and laughter filled the crisp winter air.
facts remained, but pleasure pursued as two strangers became one another,
encouraging life to come tumbling after.

Weeding Out

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Imperative for growth to flourish appropriately,

It’s a sinking feeling when the time arrives,

And one we rarely want to admit to, because normalcy is comfortable.

Sometimes change masks itself as unknown, but we know.

One gut-wrenching pull at a time convinces us of its necessity, and the digging continues.

Beauty is stifled by its surroundings, however, she clings to what slowly kills her.

The world is full of what should be if we lean in: find grounding and settle.

Surely the weeding ends,

And the tools go back to the shelf.

Persuasion

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glows does the moon
beyond the branches, which held verdant prisms of summertime,
rich with thoughts of what could be come daylight.

a star just to the north points towards a path I’m unsure of
but regrettably stare into,
the cold air touches the tears I shed for the prayers I’ve said,
nothing makes sense as the fairytale ends.

night, oh night, you shout at me so,
what shall come of my young soul; trapped in a body at the peak of her age
clouds bustle by, such hurry
I ponder what awaits
just past the horizon of a foolish wish, held back by this garden gate.