poetry

Time Alone

mountains for web

Listen.

The leaves that rustle in the breeze.
It’s just the stirring of the trees.
To bend and sway at nature’s pleas.
And sing the song of time alone.

The sound of paper as I turn.
The book I’ve read, of life to learn.
My eyes are heavy, this rest I’ve earned.
And comfort in my time alone.

I speak, my friend, but you’re not there.
So many things we used to share.
I sit beside that empty chair.
And curse my hated time alone.

The soul is restless, thoughts fill my head.
Of troubling times, so full of dread.
But there is peace; a prayer is said.
So strong becomes the time alone.

I hear a voice, it’s someone new.
Talk with me and stay a few.
I’ll be your friend, you’ll be mine, too.
And share our precious time alone.

The leaves will fall, no sound to make.
As winter brings the heart to ache.
But know that spring will soon awake.
The gift of no more time alone.

March 26, 2016 3

The Beaches

the beaches for web

If it’s the beaches.

If it’s the beaches’ sands you want
Then you will have them.

If it’s the mountains’ bending rivers
Then you will have them.

If it’s the wish to run away
Then I will grant it.

Take whatever you think of
While I go gas up the truck
Pack the old love letters up
We will read them when we forget why we left here.

From The Beaches, by Scott and Seth Avett

February 27, 2016 1

If you stop by from time to time you know about Larry Ellis, prolific poet and award-winning novelist. Today (Thursday, February 25) at 1:00 ET, he’s going to be a guest on Frankie Picasso’s internet radio show on the TogiNet Radio Network. He’ll be talking about his latest novel, Overtime, A Basketball Parable. You can listen live here. If you happen to miss it, it will be up later as a podcast.

February 25, 2016 1

She walks.

snowy neighborhood for web

It was another snowy night.

Larry Ellis lives in the same neighborhood I do. The scene last night was much like the photo above. In the middle of the snow storm, he looked out his window and saw a young woman walking down the street, all alone in her world of white. He wrote this:

She walks through the snow as if walking through time
The storm had covered all, erasing the present
Yesterday’s litter, this year’s rust, the cracks in the pavement
All gone under white
The streetlights, the porchlights, the moonlight and starlight
All combine tonight
Every line is straight and even, every wall upright
.
And she comes walking through as if from the past
As if from another world: maybe this perfect, soundless world
She walks alone and seems unworried
Unaffected by this that has kept every car in its garage
And has closed the schools and churches
.
Is her coat, so perfectly fitting
From another day?
Does she walk to some grand house
Now long vanished
That has reappeared in the throes of this storm?
That house where yellow light from tall windows
Makes bright rectangles on the snow in the lawn?
Will there be someone at that door to meet her
Someone to take her coat?
Candles and wine on the table
And a fire in the hearth?

February 15, 2016 1

Blue

smoke-stack-cropped-for-web

That morning, I drove in the bright sunlight on ribbons of pavement that lay gently on the snow-covered hills against the deep blue sky.

Ray Lamontagne sang about trouble.

I sipped good, strong, black coffee.

I was by myself.

I like being with others, but I also like the times alone.

To sort it all out.

On the edge of Appalachia, the hills disappeared.

Across the Ohio River, the stacks pierced the sky and bellowed white cotton.

One hundred years from now, they won’t be there.

They weren’t there one hundred years ago.

That’s what those kinds of day will do for you.

February 13, 2016 3

Stillness.

They sat quietly and thought about the words that had been said, thought about their pasts, their families, themselves. In the stillness of the room, their thoughts touched and their feelings mingled as the shadows of the blinds moved slowly across the table and the warm sunlight crept across their skin. He felt it. She felt it. There was something, they both knew.

January 23, 2016 9

A Prayer for Rain

He didn’t know her name. They never exchanged words, though they sat side by side on a three-hour flight. He would never see her again.

He saw her pain. The source of her pain? No, he didn’t know. But he felt it in his own heart.

Trevor Larson wrote this for her.

Hear me, Lord.

Give me gentle rain.

Heal me, Lord.

Take away the pain.

Love me, Lord,

I just need a friend.

Hear me, Lord,

and be there till the end.