SuziCate's Musings

Archive for May, 2011


a yellow warning

death is around the corner

this autumn tells us


winter is now past

spring lit the world with color

fragrance and bird song


air is now summer

daytime sun, night time fireflies

bullfrogs croak time on


autumn lingers near

to beware death once again

just to spring to life

Taste Of Sorrow

I have felt sorrow

with it’s threatening claws

ripping me to shreds and swallowing

one bite at a time

I have felt the weight, like swamp sludge,

pinning my arms and legs,

til I am aware of nothing

but the pounding of my heart

My heart drums like a woodpecker

Tap, tap, tap, echoing

through a forest of toppled trees

Sorrow tastes like hard bitter persimmons

Just a touch to the tongue,

drawing my lips and cringing my spirit

to where water doesn’t soothe but swells

Sorrow crashes upon the soul like a car wreck

and stalls like a weather front

until the heart decides to live again

When the pitter of gentle rains loosens

the stronghold, you emerge renewed –

For you have learned to bend

like the arc of a rainbow

When you rise and meet the blue of sky

be sure to claim every color

under the shining sun



by a double-edged sword of truth,

you stand in the midst of tomorrow

while she hangs in the shadows of yesterday.

Your truth bares a shudder of fragile bones,

her innate fear of life’s prowling anger.

You juggle her wailing ego against dashing dreams,

spinning and sinking in darkness.

She stifles the infinite messages of petrified wood

as you struggle to spill them onto the sand.

She hides her fears behind nomadic gleams

of beads, baubles, and bright scarves

while you dive naked and headfirst into ocean’s roar.

You both bleed regrets into ordinary silences

rushing to catch the ranting swells of time.

Holding hands, trample into the barefoot night

and wrestle with the grace of dawn:

together you might catch a falling star.

Mind Storm

Looking through a haze,

do we see what’s really there?

Are we in a daze?

Things get distorted,

they aren’t always as they seem.

Vision contorted.

Eyes are tricky tools,

showing us things that aren’t there.

Makes us into fools.


gone wild inside our heads,

our own creation.

When the fog fades out

the monsters run for cover.

We are left in doubt.


when the rain poured down

earth rumbled tumbled crumbled

our world fell apart

flood waters washed in

whipping ripping stripping land

stealing those we loved

bald like an old man

nothing remains forever

but the sun still shines


Scraggly roots cling

while green tendrils grasp for sky.

The rock wears a quilted coat of moss.

I finger the softness of the womb

cradling the cold smooth stone.

Grey and green take flight like a bird

toward an old abandoned house.

Crash. Shatter. My arm freezes mid air.

Ripped like meat from bones,

moss hangs from a jagged edge of glass

…and the stone is lost

somewhere inside the neglected frame

of a rundown house.


unearthing the deep

these discs are made for digging

dreams beneath the dirt


it’s all about us

the blood, sweat, and tears, of life

such our garden grows


eternal process

we dig, plant, gather, and hope

we reap what we sow


As you come and go with the storm,

She waits behind the clouds

And drenches your body

With the rain.


And as the sun shines,

You feel the warmth

But never see her

As she waits.


Beneath the stones on the road,

You trod over her

Never glancing down

To see her dust.


Upon the waters of your life,

Her reflection glistens,

But you’ll never see her

Unless you look.


Over the mountains you travel.

She settles in your footsteps.

You almost feel her presence

But never really see her.


In the darkness of the night,

She’s the brightest star

Shining over you

As you rest.


Beyond shadows of dreams,

Beneath your aching heart,

At the bottom of the well,

She waits for you.

Hollow Trunk

shelter from the rain

and scorching rays of sunshine

nature’s safe haven

This Old House

From the livestock to the gardens and fields of slumbered hay,

they were faced with more work than given hours in each day.

This old house has felt the footsteps of weary trodden men

who rested but a bit to get up and head to the fields again.

It is the place where women rocked their dreams into night,

only to rise when the rooster crowed in early morning light.

Ceilings echo screams of endless labor and laughter of life.

This home is no stranger to birth, death, love, joy, and strife.

Multiple generational life has absorbed within it’s walls,

as families of children walked away to follow their calls.

Changing times, they struggled to keep the farm in pace.

My father was the last child born at the old home place.

Circumstances of time and weather exercised it’s toll

on sore backs, blistered fingers and exhausted souls.

The farm has turned into a respite, a place to convene,

augmenting freedom and possibility; a place to dream.

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