Ghostly whispers carve their words across the sand,
a poem written for the soul. The reader walks and breathes
the salty air, as words dissolve beneath the waves.

The spirits call to him, but he cannot read
their silent stories as he walks. He seeks
answers, but finds only shapes that change.

With eyes closed, he stoops to touch the grains
and lets them fall away. And then he sees, with fingers
warmed by truth, the spirit words that speak.

Lilian

Today
I walked along the beach.
It was cold and grey.
I missed you.
If you had been there
we could have looked for shells
or picked up seaweed
and laughed.
We could have run together
when it rained.

Ripples,catching the light,
focusing attention,
drawing me in.
Gritty sandy waves of grief rise and fall.
Gravitational pull
drawing me deeper
into well worn grooves of pain.
Let go, let go my soul cries.
Salty streams of water gush into every wounded place.
All is released to the tides ebb
Leaving only new ripples to shimmer in the light.

Grain of sand
in my hand
Tell me your story.

“Born in fire
Thrust up as magma
I spread slowly along the ocean’s floor
Sliding, splitting, shoving
Cooling to a crust.

When tectonic plates collided
I reached for the sky
and became the crystalline face of a mountain peak,
raw material
that nature’s elements sculpted.

The world turned cold.
Ice carved, sheared and fractured my form.
I became rubble,
Locked in a frozen lake.

When the sun’s warm touch returned
and released me from my glacial prison,
I tumbled down ridges and trenches, streams and rivers,
Carried by currents of water and air
That dropped me at the ocean’s shore.

Now I follow the tide’s ebb and flow,
Dancing with the waves,
Resting in shallow pools,
Creating whorls and ripples of beachscape,
Reflecting starlight.”

Shimmering quartz
on warm skin,
one thing I know for sure:

We are from dust
and to dust we shall return.

Only when the flouncy sea has hiked her
skirts up high and left to meet her lover
in the daily deeps,
only then can we see on the beach,
what’s left behind.

Only when our buzzing lives are sidetracked
by the weather, death, some accident
of time that leaves us stranded, makes the
pass impassable—
only then can we hear, in the pause,
what’s possible inside.

Scarred
the path’s pits hold wisdom safely
and the mounds above greet the sun
in healed joy.
Worn.

Welcomed
water stays on the worn path
reflecting it’s joy in the shimmers
refreshing.
New

(My mother wanted me to put in this poem that I wrote. It was originally part of a poetry booklet that I gave to her, but she wants me to share this one. Even though it isn’t directly related to the picture, she is sure that we can get benefit of the doubt. So.. here it is.

A poem is filled with many things,
seen and unforeseen.
It shows how the author feels
by what the poem might mean.

The beautiful stanzas and words,
the way the writing is leaning.
Everything is a clue,
That has a deeper meaning.

For the poet writes what is dwelled upon,
and all inside their life.
The trial and joys they face,
The contest and open strife.

It is very hard to explain
But this is what poets do,
They will write what is in their being,
And give it up to you

In every poem it is the same,
The message lies deep within.
The poet’s heart is put on paper,
And lets everyone enter in.

the path shimmers with hearts covered in frost
frozen in regret and resentment
dipping. rising. threading in and out.

I long to feel the warm sand beneath my feet
to dip my toes in water fresh
to move past the frozenness of heartache

thaw my heart, oh Lord
I know there is warmth beneath the snow
the shimmering flakes give me hope

the patterns speak of birds in flight
waves of snow covering grains of infinity
each as unique as the snowflake

shimmering. shaking. crying. weeping.
covering the warmth
waiting for the heart to thaw