Welcome to The Front Porch

Okay, dinner's over. The little ones are already at play in the yard. Lizzy, the devoted 'tween, is engaged in a lively game of giggle tag with the two toddlers. Braydon, while re-fitting the muffler to his dirt bike over at the side yard, is also busy pretending not to care. Grandpa has settled into his favorite lounge chair and lit his pipe. The twins are still at the dishes, noisily whispering about the recently discovered lump on Aunt Mary's left shoulder. Cool air brushes in off the nearby lake and shooes away the heat as well as the mosquitoes. The sun is heading for bed, and the long day rounds the bend towards home. There's just enough time left for a little light conversation and some good old-fashioned fellowship. So grab a seat here on the steps, or there by the old oak, and join in the discussion. Say your piece, or just while away the time listening to the chirping of the creatures hidden all about. Either way, we're here to entertain, enlighten, and encourage each other. And by the way, thanks for stopping by.

Sunday, April 17, 2011


(This prose poem is meant to supplement the previous essays on Dreams and Voices.  I hope you enjoy it.)



Solitude and the scent of morning.
The smell of it calls to her from down the hall.
Calling her to consciousness
as the small finger of her left hand
lifts out long strands of black hair
trapped in the watery sleep at the corner of her lips.
She becomes aware of the pillow next to her:
soft, fluffy, empty.
Her two boys a dozen years or more past crawling in with her
on stormy nights.
Abandoned also by her ex, who shares pillows now with another,
in some other city, in some other state.
The one who before brewed her coffee and brought
the steaming mug to her bed replaced now by a Mr. Coffee
with an automatic timer and an alarm.
So many mornings come and gone.

Soda. Tea. Beer.

Stimulants and mood-inhibitors.
Self-awareness gives way
as she moves through her day
to socializing.
A lunch with friends, shopping,
her focus always on the other.
Sub-conscious coping strategies?
She momentarily forgets her pain, the shame
of letting her life interrupt her dreams.
Dreams too hastily misplaced in the arms of an undeserving other.
Some steps taken. Some steps forsaken.
All leading here, now.
How to restore her dreams?
A second family? Too late for that, and not quite right somehow.
An artistic work? Hmmm. But who will understand her?
What is there in self-expression that can connect her
to anything outside herself?
So many opportunities come and gone.

And so finally, Wine.

Still another day passes away.
And only the distilled spirits of a fruit to lift her spirits.
Yet Hope rises in her. Ever rising the way need rises in others.
She sees her image reflected in the robust burgundy.
And she likes what she sees.
Why shouldn't she? There is much to like.
An inviting warmth in her eyes like a hearth in a home.
A grace in her smile that belies the weight on her shoulders.
Truth and elegance in her posture. Strength and poise in her hands.
A final sip of the wine and her heart opens more deeply.
Unanalyzed dreams, visions of a better version of herself, enfold her
in a more loving embrace.
She accepts.
She moves on.
She finds her pillow, rests her eyes, and awaits her...
morning coffee.

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