Life's Landscape

I look at my faith as stepping stones A long path of learning Until I finally get to solid ground I stay awhile and enjoy the blessings But will yearn for a new journey Where Universe will send me on a walk To learn even more Each stone a lesson, through any storm They'll grow larger as I grow older Clear messages received I'll thank the Almighty in the end For my life's landscape, so weathered And appreciated. Amen

Destination's Journey

My mind is a jumbled mess full of what feels like an electrical current So many thoughts inside they burn crossing currents of ideas So many roads of thought links make sense but not falling apart at the crossroad I'm not one to ponder Deciding which way to go Decision is made, sparkplug, go Destination unknown, but wishing to fit into this place of conformity, might I be the grace We are all a piece of the fabric That makes the mighty cloak of this world I leave my artistic stroke

The Attic

I wrote this a few years ago and I'm reminded of "the hill". I grew up on Capital Hill in Seattle where all the Irish Catholics swarmed the streets. Facebook now has a group page called "Hillers" and we are all basking in the glow of memories lit up like an old picture film. Here is my poem about my childhood home that I miss greatly.

The Attic
That muggy lived in room, held the key to the memories of family members who once occupied it. It took on the personality of all its’ occupants, at least 10 I know of.
Room designs I now recall, Farrah and Olivia posters belonging to the crush inhabited by brother Terry, Christy Brinkley posters admired by sister Theresa who admired beauty.
In the end, mattresses, boxes, dust, covered the light/shadow patterns on the floor.
The West window, tiny as a cubbyhole, performed as watchtower to the neighborhood or solace from life’s storms.
Open the door, climb the deep wooden stairs, pull the string to bring in dim light, and find secrets in treasures left behind by life’s authors. Or search for memories of feelings once felt as an adolescent in search of her soul.
Ancient electrical wires veil the spiritual vault that no longer exists for this family, but remains in their hearts.
I miss the attic.