Milkweed

Walking through the field in the gentle breeze, I noticed milkweed pods blown in from recent storms resting between the wires of the old rusty fence. Not just one or two, but a whole branch of pods, some opened with their floss rustling in the wind, some tightly closed.

Without hesitation, I was back on the path to my grandma’s home. The old house boasted a big stone porch with a wooden swing on either end: swings where we used to sit and listen to stories of days gone by told by my beloved grandma who had thinning silver hair and a voice I no longer remember.

All along the path that led to her house, milkweed grew, and my sisters and I would stop to open the pods and watch the silky, white hairs blow in the wind. Those were the days when the monarch butterflies were so abundant that when their wings met in the air, we could catch them on wildflowers and then watch them fly away, leaving remnants of orange dust on our fingertips.

And now, after opening the closed pods and standing in the field watching the dainty, soft floss rustle in the wind, I sit on the porch swing on the stone porch of my old red-brick farmhouse and realize that a generation has passed right before my eyes.

Yesterday I, with my thinning silver hair, watched my grandchildren running though the field collecting Easter eggs, and my family sat under the sun sharing stories.

And today, here alone on the wooden swing, I wonder if they’ll someday forget my voice.

Autumn Moments

Ghosts and goblins, pumpkin heads, witches riding brooms–

Telling scary stories in dimly lighted rooms–

Sitting ‘round the campfire, hot-dog-roasting fumes–

These are autumn moments . . .

vividly in bloom.

Leaves raked high from autumn trees, fiery golds and reds–

Jumping deeply in the pile, covering our heads–

Darker mornings, shorter days, quicker “off-to-beds”–

These precious autumn moments

gently ‘round us tread.

Apple cider, hot or cold; homemade pumpkin pie–

Autumn scents through window screens; harvest time is nigh–

Fodder shocks and hayrides; scarecrows standing high–

These are autumn moments–

never let them die.

©donna

For Momma

Dove’s distant coo at evening’s sunset
brings melancholy memories of moments
when we frolicked through forests,
traversed fallen trees uniting hollows,
and lit the adjacent pasture afire
without intention.

At every adventurous day’s end,
you prepared the table, ran baths,
knelt in prayer with folded hands at bedside,
and soundly tucked each of us in
with a good night kiss
and an I love you.

Growing, we watched your ways,
mirrored your generosity,
and led our children
down their own adventurous paths.

And each evening we find ourselves
kneeling in prayer with praise
for this thing we call family:
a mother whose prayers move mountains,
a warrior standing firmly
against the powers of darkness
for her family.

And we are always thankful,
ever grateful,
for having been born
into this world
under your care,
into your arms,
full of your love.

© 2019
Donna

Through depth of night

Through depth of night, I sit alone

Whisp’ring, “My God, please come atone,

This flesh is weak – woe has won;

Yet You declare when day is done,

You’ll intercede with Spirit’s moan.

I am Yours, Lord, Living Stone;

Please breathe into this life on loan,

And stroll with me in setting sun

Through depth of night.”

Silence hews to marrowed bone,

Infuses air and tenders tone.

Its impact’s height surpasses none;

Its presence ne’re a soul’s outrun.

“Wake up!” You cry, “Do not bemoan!”

Through depth of night.

© Donna Arthur Downs

Awakening

Somewhere between the

folds of the sheets

and the soft green blanket,

the recesses of my mind took me

to another world…

a world where Daddy and Momma

were old.

He barely stayed awake at the wheel

yet refused to give it up.

Finally convincing him,

I drove on until my eyes burned and bled

and the bitter taste in my mouth

could not be quenched.

She gave her last three prescription pills

to a homeless woman.

Exasperated, I cried,

Momma, why’d you do that? You needed those pills!

Looking down at her hands, she murmured,

I guess I wasn’t thinking.

Helpless as they were

their pitiful state showed an independence

and urgency to be reckoned with.

Even in their aging

they gave freely

and knew no strangers,

their vitiated minds and bodies

successors to those I have known

all my life.

I awoke

with racing heart

and whirling mind

only to realize

dreams are a realm of reality

awaiting an awakening.

© Donna Arthur Downs

Somewhere in the distance

Somewhere in the distance

a dove coos,

crying out loneliness

felt since my grandmother died,

not a cruel, wretched death, but

simply a fading away from

grief and her newfound solitude.

How does one bring back

the hilly path that led to

Grandma’s house,

the homemade fudge with added

walnuts, gathered from the forest and

broken on the old marble stone,

the sense of belonging

the front porch brought

as the chains on the old wooden swings creaked

rocking back and forth and back and forth

on summer days gone by

as the doves cooed from the distant wood.

How do we take all we’ve known

and put it in a simple poem

on a single page

that will make a difference

and bring life to others?

How do we share experiences

with metaphors and similes

and strong, vivid verbs

calling others to feel with us

at the simple call of a dove?

How can you see my grandma’s thin,

wavy hair blowing in the wind as she

stood by the creek

running over the gravel road

and stared into the distance

remembering her own children

and their walks in the wood

and the doves cooing in the distance?

They sound sad.

They sound lonely.

But can the birds of the air

really feel sadness and loneliness as

we do

when those who held us close

slowly fade away

and leave us

with nothing but memories

that jump to life once again

with the single cry of a bird.

© Donna Arthur Downs

Transcience

Fleeting days…

moments filled with hope

yet the realization:

all we’ve known

has too soon

passed.

Surely more exists for

spiritual beings

living in

corpses of clay

as dust

diminishes

dust.

Living by every word

that proceeds

from God’s mouth

does not assure Heaven;

only through grace

can we possibly

imagine eternity

in these

fleeting

days.

©Donna Arthur Downs

The time has come

While visiting a beautiful property the other day, I saw a blue heron. Almost magically, it swooped down from the clouds into a nearby pond and serenely settled in the distance. Curious, I sought information and discovered:

As I enter a phase of life where I desire to follow my dreams before it's too late, this message of tradition empowers me and helps me see the importance of maneuvering through and co-creating circumstances. With God at the helm, miracles happen. I believe.

Sunrise prayer

Father, open up mine eyes

to vast, exquisite, painted skies.

At sins of yesteryear’s demise,

Your handiwork illumes the skies,

brings brisk new birth from days gone by

in all surpassing, sweet sunrise.

In my little cabin

In my little cabin

in the middle of the wood,

I awake and see the seasons,

and my heart sings all is good.

I listen for the birdsong

wafting softly through the breeze

And see God blow his lifebreath

gently through the trees.

Alone here in my cottage,

alone here in my wood,

I awake and see the seasons,

and my heart sings all is good.

©Feb. 2019

In this house

So many times

for so many years

the scenery in front of his eyes

has changed

yet remains the same.

In this house

on this side of the glass

excited and frightened at 19 and 17

he and his bride

felt the fluttering of their first child

when the trees were young

and hills were alight with autumn’s hues

as life together began.

In this house

on this side of the glass

with their own hands

they built room after room

for five children,

never fretting that floors were uneven

or wall joints didn’t match.

They were warm

and were not weary.

Grace and generosity abounded

in this house

on this side of the glass.

And now

after another Thanksgiving

surrounded by family and plum pie

through the glass

he peers and ponders

as his son burns the brush

of the once young tree

that because of weakening limbs

was hewn down.

Like an abandoned Thanksgiving table

its stalwart stump stands in solitude

against the sunset

of another passing day.

And in this house

on this side of the glass

so many times, for so many years

the scenery in front of his eyes

has changed

yet remains the same.

© Donna Arthur Downs

Aches & Pains & Aunt Freida

As I talked to my momma tonight, we mentioned aches and pains and Aunt Freida who’s 92 and can’t figure out why her body hurts.

I said, “Well, she IS kinda old…but we’re all getting there.”

“Your parents aren’t getting old; we ARE old,” Momma said. I mentioned that she’s only 21 years older than I, so….once she gets to Heaven, her kids aren’t far behind….She said she can’t complain because she’s had 81 good years.

How does one process aging? I must say that 60 hit hard this year. Fifty was decently acceptable, but 60, well…shall I mention AARP? Senior discounts? Graying hair? (oops…that happened at 35!)

As I sit here in front of the fireplace under low lights, I imagine the days when I used to think Grandma was old when she was 60, 70, 80….and I’m amazed at how I am now 60 and 80 doesn’t seem so old any more.

In Walking on Water, Madeleine L’Engle says, “I am not an isolated, chronological numerical statistic. I am sixty-one, and I am also four, and twelve, and fifteen, and twenty-three, and thirty-one and forty-five and … and… and…” How true this is! She goes on to say, “If we lose any part of ourselves, we are thereby diminished. If I cannot be thirteen and sixty-one simultaneously, part of me has been taken away.”

When we are young, we cannot imagine what being 60 feels like. When we are older, who we were at 5, 13, 21, 35, 43, 59 is ingrained in who we are today. Memories and lessons from when we first learned to ride a bike to fishing with Grandpa to that first date…they are all a part of our aging minds, bodies and souls. And though we’ve changed, hopefully matured and become wiser, we remain the same.

I am the frightened girl walking up the path alone to Grandma’s house and I’m the mature woman flying across the ocean to lands never experienced. I’m the granddaughter who remembers making taffy and fudge with Grandma and the grandma who loves to make cookies and muffins with the grandkids. I’m the daughter who wants to care well for her parents and the parent who wants to care well for her sons. I’m all those parts and pieces of who I’ve ever been all wrapped into one big bundle, at times remembering the small acts of kindness that made me who I am today but also remembering the hurtful moments that create pause.

And I’m still afraid of snakes. (just had to say that)

But, seriously, aches and pains and Aunt Freida mean that we’re still living, experiencing and moving forward. Old? Perhaps. But alive and well and thankful that each day is a new beginning.

© Donna Arthur Downs

Steps

Each step forward

is one more

toward eternity,

like it or not.

New beginnings

foster the end

to life as we’ve known it;

ready or not,

here they come.

Do clouds really have silver linings?

Do rainbows’ ends reach golden vessels?

Words emanate and pass away;

people come and go;

life ebbs and flow

as tides stem.

Who among us really knows or

understands grace?

What choice have we but to accept

meanderings of each day,

hoping and praying

every step forward

leads us to God.

…Gone…

. . . Gone . . .

Fishin'

Through dandelioned meadow, up steep grassy hill,

down to the babbling brook,

I strolled in the breeze, pants rolled to my knees,

with my fishin' pole, stringer, and hook.

My five little worms had the squiggles and squirms

in their cut-in-half carton of dirt,

As I sat on smooth rocks, filled my shoes with my socks,

and rolled the sleeves of my daddy's old shirt.

Down under bright sun, where clear waters run,

I could lie on those rocks all day long.

Old cane pole in hand, feet wet in silt-sand,

my heart flew through white clouds like a song.

My pa, he got mad, and my ma, she seemed sad

that I spent little time on my chores,

But the beckoning brook called to me and my hook

to come visit its green, grassy shores.

There's just somethin' so neat about wading bare feet

in the babbling brook over the hill,

Yet I don't care for fishin' as much as for wishin'

I was young and could visit there still.

© Donna Arthur Downs

The Checkered Quilt

The checkered quilt on Momma's bed

has drawin' power fer me.

I like the soft, warm feel of it

an' it's perty as can be.

I like how Momma folds it back

when it's time to go to bed;

I like it so much sometimes

I get an achin' in my head,

An' I have to pout a little bit

an' say I don't feel well.

Then Momma takes me in her arms–

(I think that's perty swell!)

She gets me snacks and reads to me

an' tries to make me smile,

An' then she tucks me in her bed,

"fer just a little while."

Well, then I feel all better,

tucked tightly 'neath that quilt;

All snuggled next to Momma,

I ferget how bad I felt.

The checkered quilt on Momma's bed

holds many memories.

Sometimes we put a sail on it

an' journey o're the seas.

We romp an' roll and toss about

as waves o'retake the ship

Til Momma comes in scowlin',

with her hands upon her hips.

She says, "What are you doing?!

You're messing up my bed!"

Then she jumps atop of us

an' bucks us with her head.

She tickles us both soundly

as we burrow 'neath the quilt.

This is the mostest funnest thing

I think I've ever felt.

It's more than just a quilt, you know–

the one on Momma's bed–

It's ships an' tents an' hide-aways

an' cures fer achin' heads.

It's love an' warmth an' tenderness

like Momma is herself­,

An' I'm so glad it's on the bed

an' not on some ol' shelf.

Fer quilts are made fer usin'

since they're made by mothers' hands;

They're not just made to look at

an' put on those ol' stands.

We hold so many marv'lous mem'ries

of the things we've played an' built,

That there'll never be another

like my momma's checkered quilt.

© Donna Arthur Downs

Bunny

for Jessa

I love my bunny and my bunny loves me….

Bunny, bunny, bunny, bunny, bunny bee.

I love my bunny as far as I can see….

Bunny, bunny, bunny, bunny, bunny bee.

I love my bunny, I love him so,

Bunny, bunny, bunny, bunny, bunny bo.

I love my bunny from head to toe,

Bunny, bunny, bunny, bunny, bunny bo.

© Donna Arthur Downs

My will, not thine

In the still, crisp night

life’s brevity

gasps for air,

trapped in the

realization of

without faith it is

not only

impossible to please him

but simply

impossible.

As shadows of bare-limbed trees

dance on the soft cotton drapes

in the moon’s full light

awareness beckons

sweat as blood.

Let this cup pass o’re me

and give me life.

Not so noble as the True Son

I cannot breathe the words

Thy will be done

but, rather,

my soul silently screams

Let me live, Father.

Let me live.

© Donna Arthur Downs

Makin’ Memories

Down the path back through the woods is where I like to go,

no matter if the grass is green or covered up with snow.

From our house to the cabin, I scurry to and fro.

Yep, that’s where Grandma comes sometimes. I love my grandma so.

That little house back in the woods is full of fun and joys.

We build a fire and play some games made just for little boys.

We eat small white donuts when I awake each day,

as we cuddle in the blankets; we then set out to play.

My Pops, he built a zip line across the holler there,

And me ‘n my big sister go flyin’ through the air.

My newest little brother just now is gettin’ brave…

he flies with my daddy, all serious and grave.

We’re makin’ precious mem’ries…that’s what Grandma said…

Spendin’ time together all cuddled in her bed…

playin’ games together, eatin’ kettle corn…

cuttin’ paper snowflakes early in the morn.

I guess I gotta go now…no lingerin’ or stallin’…

From the little house back in the woods, my grandma is a callin’.

She wants her kids to come and play; she says, “Hurry down!”

Yep, I’m a happy camper when Grandma comes to town.

© Donna Arthur Downs

Restless waves

As sun peeks over brilliant horizon

restless waves

scatter lifeless shells on silver shore.

Creatures great and small wander ocean depths

but where shallow meets sand,

broken, worn remnants lie unfettered by the sea.

Tossed and tousled

each tells a tale of once vibrant life.

We walk among them

eagerly examining each,

hoping for perfect prizes.

Hours upon hours

old men shuffle

young men pace

children dance,

each roaming the water’s edge for treasured trinkets.

Reaching into the waves

digging into the sand,

they focus…

lifting, tossing, saving, leaving,

selecting only the perfect.

One perceives beauty where

others see worn, hollow.

They are like us…

lacking vibrancy, valor, vivacity.

Tossed and torn by leery lessons,

we settle on dry land, having lost our dreams

in life’s insatiable sea.

Unable to discern or distinguish,

we seek joy in secret places where it cannot,

must not

be found.

Rather than seeking the Giver,

we grope and grasp to gather ourselves,

broken, worn, tossed…

far from envisioned ideal.

Only when selflessness enters

do we understand.

Ask and it will be given to you.

Seek and you will find.

Knock and the door will be opened.

© Donna Arthur Downs

Sisters

As I sat with wet, grey hair, my shoulders covered by a black, plastic cape, the snipping sounds of my hairdresser’s scissors were overtaken by the woman cutting hair at the next chair complaining about her sister.

“Never helps Mom.” “Never takes responsibility.” “Never wants to change plans in a family emergency.”

Face solemn, the woman sitting in the chair nodded her head in agreement. Surely in her 80s, she had endured much and could completely agree.

“I haven’t talked to my sister since September 14, 1986,” she declared, somewhat proudly. Hmmmm.

Astonished, I could keep quiet no longer. “Really? Since 1986? Why not?”

Their mother had died and that was the day the estate was settled. Sister wanted the house to be all hers. House was divided. Hence, relationships awry.

My mind wandered to my sisters: one four years older, one 14 months older. What would it take for me to not speak to them for almost 30 years? Surely more than half of a house. Surely more than their not taking responsibility.

But, then, my sisters do take responsibility. In any family issue or crisis, we gather to help however possible. Known by my youngest brother as “stalkers,” we sometimes go overboard in trying to help with those family issues. If it takes stalking, well, we stalk together, no matter what time of the day or night.

And, of course, my sisters wouldn’t stop talking to me over half a house. They would give me the whole house if I needed it. But I wouldn’t want the house…I would say, “You take it.”

And they would argue, “No, we have houses; we don’t need anything more.” Bottom line…whoever needs the house (like youngest brother…stalk, stalk) can have it, and together, let’s make sure it stands so he can live in it for a very long time.

Lost in thought between the scissors' snips, I felt sadness for these women who have sisters, but don’t REALLY have sisters. And I felt joy because of the sisters I do have.

Relationship is what matters in life, and my family does pretty doggone well in the relationship realm. Our parents taught us the joy of giving, the importance of loving, and the necessity of forgiving. The example they’ve set before us has lit the path to joy-filled life.

Have they made mistakes? You bet. But they’ve learned through those mistakes and helped us understand how crucial it is to go on living, loving and giving no matter what.

Complaining about my sisters is not something I find myself doing very often, if at all. Oh, yes, we tease about SNEAKing, about broken arms, stolen boyfriends, one-dip-a-hand fingernail polish, but complain? Don't think so.

If I have complained before, LORD, let me never do so again.

For sitting there under that cape, I realized all over again the importance of sisters…especially the importance of mine. And I vowed to appreciate them just a little bit more, to love them a little bit deeper…and to give them my house, mice and all, if they want it!

©Donna Arthur Downs