Things left on the étagère
That place things exist
Seeking meaning, some ultimate purpose
Reminding us who we were, could become
Some lingering ghosts in our heads
Haunting our sleep, yes nightmares
Keeping us awake–
In that place we can’t help but question

It’s ludicrous to think
Anything could be better than what is
Starting with a faint heartbeat–
That which keeps us in step
With something outlasting us all

Like some wild dog sled adventure
Way up North, across so many miles
Lifetimes, precious moments spent
Waiting, wondering, hopelessly living
Within predestined limits–
These times remain mere artifacts
Leftover promises waiting
For their time to come–
To find expression
Sun signs of what can’t help but be

Mom Died Somewhere Between the Window Blinds


Mom died
Somewhere between the window blinds–
The sun took her home
In just a mere blink of the eye

She’s in a grave now, not far
from where she was born
A solitary place, in peace
What she wished her world to be

Morning sun is so important
Not just to hungry house plants
Leaning desperately in its direction
It awakens us all from our sleep
The darkness surrounding our light

Mom died
Somewhere between the window blinds
A place eventually light finds us all
Leaning in its direction
Hopefully to go home in peace


Note: What do any of us know about death until our time comes? Maybe even then we know nothing about it. For all we know, death could be no more or less complex than light passing through the window blinds.