Here’s That Rainy Day

I should have saved
Those leftover dreams
But here’s that rainy day

Here’s that rainy day
They told me about
And I laughed at the thought
That it might turn out this way

Where is that worn out wish
That I threw aside
After it brought my love so near

Funny how love becomes
A cold rainy day
That rainy day is here

It’s funny
How love becomes
A cold rainy day

That rainy day is here

Written by Jimmy Van Heusen


The Grandma I Miss

In the winter, the short grey days and long dark afternoons. The time just right for fires, for peeling apples and making savory stews. When the moon is high and floorboards cold I remember Grandma. I remember waking her up for midnight eye drops. She’d wake up from a sound sleep, sit on edge of the bed, hair all wispy white, eyes a sleepy sparkle blue, she’d lean her head back far, drip in quick, wipe the extra with a tissue. She’d hold my arm and stand up slow, thinned flannel gown round her frame, together we’d walk the hall to the commode, then back to bed, another goodnight kiss. “Shut out the light” she’d say. On winter nights like this I miss her most.

...because healing spreads

0306-From original small 3 x 5

The one I miss.  The one I’ll know more of one day, the young one in these pictures.  The one that was old when I loved her, but still so young. Who wrote and read and talked of times I never knew.  So interested in the world, she was.  In governments, in plots and poetry, and not so much in whether her stockings stayed up leg or not.  She who let her clothes wear out so she could afford – fixed income of nothing, to buy me and my sisters a dress now and then.  A flight to come see us.  A phone call to see how we were doing. Stamps for the letters she wrote to tell us how she was.  Groceries she bought and always shared.  Tight with what didn’t matter, leaving ample for what did.    I miss her light blue eyes of sparkle, light in hew…

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Beauty Sings Above The Pain

I found a poem I’d written two years ago, wobbly and foggy headed.  Written from hospital bed high above the Seattle skyline.  The surgeon had taken my thyroid, then a second surgery on heels of the first to stop an angry hemorrhage.  Had a hard time stabilizing, and with day six of yet another bed-bound meal of jello and broth when it soaked in how good my life really was.  Here’s to all of you out there struggling along, with an occasional patch of sunbeams and color peeking through the grey.

Jello red it shines
in Pudding bowl and waiting
And chicken broth a golden hot that warms me

All IV places swelling, bruised
Electric shocks into my hands
The wound from surgery still pains
And pressured chest from walking

But still red jello shines
The golden broth it warms
And beauty sings above the pain,
A song about my life.

Her eyes they brown as chocolate brown
A smile wide and joyful
His careful placing of the cuff
and working on the details
Raw I feel and wobbly
Too many days no shower

But still I see
Eyes bright and kind
One working on the details
And beauty sings above the pain.
A song about my life