The City of Missed Connections

She sits alone
In the small cafe
and checks the time
on her phone.

Perhaps something happened
or it was a different cafe
yet even when they did meet
it was a missed connection.

(This was about as much of a poem as I could get written yesterday as part of my discipline of trying to write a poem a day for Lent.)

(Categories: )


The crocuses came up
in the usual places
just like they had
since the first spring
after she planted them.

They had just bought
the house
and she thought
crocuses would be nice.

Every year
they were a wonderful surprise;
first to her husband,
and later,
to her kids and grandkids.

This year,
the crocuses
were a pleasant surprise
to the new owners
of the house
and a new patch
of crocuses
came up
beside her gravestone.

(Categories: )


It wasn’t how difficult
the hiding place was
to find
that mattered.

It was that they would get
so close
and you hoped to be found
and not found
at the same time.

It was that they kept searching
for you
sometimes close enough
for them to hear
your heart pounding
if they only paused
and listened.

Years later
when you turned
and walked away,
although you wouldn’t admit it,
you held your breath
waiting for them
to run after you;
afraid they would,
afraid they wouldn’t.

you sit quietly
who is left
to come.

(Categories: )

The Table

Despite the piles
of medical bills
and legal notices
and so many other things
that demand attention
they managed to share
their special meal
at the family table.

Despite the unspoken
broken feelings of pain
around issues new
and old
there was still
time and space
around the table
for comfort food.

Just as
ages ago
there was still time
for bread and wine
around the table
before He was handed over
to suffering and death.

(Categories: )

The Old Trail

It was an old trail
I’d often travelled as a child
on foot, on sled, on bike, on horse.

It passed the rope swing
out over the steep drop off
then up the hill
through the field
where the abandoned house was.

I remember the left hand turn
through the pine grove
where the ground was soft
with brown pine needles.

It was quiet in there
and every sound
and every motion
seemed amplified.

You could stand there
and listen
to the chickadee
in a distant tree
to the chipmunk
and squirrel
running along the branches,
and especially
to the unknown.

Beyond the grove,
the path forked;
uphill to the right
passing behind the neighbor’s barn
and downhill to the left
towards the old scout camp.

Straight ahead was the stream,
too small to fish
but you might see some minnows there,
various water bugs,
or if you sat
long enough,
something mysterious.

I would sit there
on those long summer days
waiting for a blessing
I had already received.

(Categories: )
Syndicate content