A Yankee's Musing

Friday, June 29, 2012



It’s the trek outside in the rain or cold to the outhouse, or the pump for water, or the woodshed for another armful of split hard wood for the stove. It’s the cold pine floorboards on my bare feet in the morning and the ravens screeching for food, the chipmunks eyeing the back screen door expectantly while I get the cats fed first. It’s the harsh simplicity of life that burrows into my soul and reminds me there is nothing so important in life that exists beyond the bare essentials: food, shelter, water, love. Each moment unadorned is the difference between analog and digital H-D. I drink in the nourishing silence and wonder why it is not a priority out there, beyond the trees, where the road turns to cement and noise covers the chaos of life muted.


June 26, 2012


I am not a poet

or a wordsmith

what I write is clear never obtuse

no hidden innuendos

lurking within the white space

although I sometimes use it for effect

or maybe because I don’t quite dare

to say what could be there

or should be

or might be

but isn’t

I’m not a poet

or a wordsmith

although at times I want to be

to show the imperceptible scars

that hides deep within

the folds of my cortex

holes peppered there

bruising spread like footprints

healing but not quite

while my positive attitude

mutes my flaws

protects them

silences their whisperings

to my ears only

I am not a poet

or a wordsmith

my language is a necessity

not a privilege

in my childhood

my youth

my home

words were dangerous

evoked blows

hammered silence

I learned to keep language

to monosyllables

bland to push no buttons

so you see

I cannot be a poet

for a poet loves language

I keep it simple

direct and usually safe

but what is not said is like an ocean

rising as the climate changes

melting glaciers

beneath which lies a wealth of meaning

do not be fooled by my pauses

my searching for the right word

complicated and hyphenated by MS

I am not a poet

or a wordsmith

not am I wise

I am a woman

with many layers folded

over wounds and scars that took

a lifetime of survival

a journey comforted by

nature and wild things

a place where nature takes its course

despite human tampering

or outright purposeful devastation

I am not afraid of death

the beginning and end of a circle

that continues

so you see

I cannot be a poet

or a wordsmith

for I only speak for me.