Ask me. I Dare You

Ask me. I dare you.

[But I forgot… ]

I soak color from the walls, brushing it into pictures, twisting it into wool afghans.

All these against leather sofas on wood floors.

Charged with sunlight from unveiled windows.

Smells of  home cooked food linger over an old sad body draped in beautiful clothing.

I walk every day, unless I dance wildly to whole-hearted red-blooded music.

Long tub baths go best with sweet-smelling oil.

And books.

Meaningful conversations with loved ones emanate laughter, tears and hugs.

A house full of children, music, and dance…  where all join in.

[can you hear it?]

And the first one to get there…


A few handfuls….

Let go your two-fisted man-handle; the grasping.

Waken complacent stumps; set aside your famine.

Take straight view of what remains ahead:

When things work for one;  they work for none.


Please take hold of my hand. Once young,

and now being old, I will tell you stories.

Choice tales make simple children wise;

and shape better princes from mere men.

We’ll gather threads, and twine them

Walk the road;  lean in, take hold together.

Frequent falling, fear, and callous cold,

 on shared path,  fade forgotten behind us.

Taste one sweet handful of quietness;

Its richness dangles just within our reach

Rouse stumbling feet; waken fumbling fingers;

Let go all blustering, noisy, empty wind.

And rest…


Dusty old leather volume, 
Your engraved beauty on faded cover so 
Sturdy. Crafted for the ages.
Your pages full with tales told in glory.
They recede on weathered paper as 
your own aged eyes strain against 
forgotten tintype.
Hands grasp, longing to peruse,
Cradling you homeward in my arms, so
Ready. Willing you ‘live again’.
Your children bend eager hearts to hear.
We tend your leaves and stitches as
our own hopeful eyes strain to preserve 
everything within you. 
Fragility seals against all inquiry,
consigning to unreachable places,
leaving history to mere storytellers,
as we mourn.