Can I hear red?

I can see the red leaves in autumn.

I can feel the red chill in the wind.

I hear red as a crisp, fierce roar of fire.

The burn pile started slowly, timidly,

licking at the edges of thick wood blocks

without hurting them, consuming

slender sticks and slats of wood.

Then the red and yellow flames began a dance

in the center of the pile. It was a fandango

of flashing flames for our entertainment.

We alternated feeding the pile of scrap lumber,

dodging flames leaping out at us

unexpectedly, as the wind changed.

Soon there was a low rumbling force of

red hot coals consuming scraps of wood

at an increasing pace. The flaming beast

ravenous now, a giant animal tasting

raw meat for the first time.

Red flames outnumbered the yellow,

stretching out even further to whisk each

piece of wood from our gloved hands.

The heat became so intense, we could only

throw wood from a distance, feeling

the skin burn on our faces.

The red hot fire was a living thing now

and we were its keepers. It lapped up

patches of green grass just outside the

burning ring. Charred embers tumbled out.

at its height, we had fed it the last scrap.

We watched in wonder as the fire leapt

and danced with the wind, raging, smoldering

and very, very slowly dying from the outside in.

I heard red that day. I heard it. I saw it. I felt it.

I smelled it and tasted it. I saw it live and die.

She wrote of love with honor,

The love we show with great respect.

She wrote of love with tenderness,

The kind we bless our families with.

She wrote of deeper spiritual love.

The love of self, of God, and neighbor.

She wrote of war and a lack of love.

She wrote of man’s misbehavior.

She wrote of heartbreaking  memories.

She wrote until her pen ran dry.

Innately she clearly realized,

It was better to write than sit and cry.

Patricia A. Hare

11/27/2012

The memory of my mother sitting in her easy chair

crocheting comes to mind. She worked the hook

deftly in and out, weaving the thread through loops,

in, out, and around with spider like precision.

This was her gift, her reasurring habit that

gave her comfort and purpose. A table cloth

for her daughter, an afghan for her other daughter,

shawls and baby blankets, caps and ponchoes.

All done with love and determination.

All unique, but lacking absolute perfection.

She showed her daughters and grand children how

to form a stitch, a row of stitches, a pattern.

When they became busy working, there was no

time for crafts and their attendant patience.

My mother continued diligently.

By the time she passed on at 93 years of age,

each of her twelve grandchildren had an afghan

or some other colorful crocheted item to

remember her by, to touch and remember.

She had no money to leave for her two daughters,

but she left them a treasury of crochet.

She had carefully chosen each color

of thread, each design, for her loved ones.

She and her flying fingers had crafted goods

stitch by stitch, loop by loop, over many patient years.

No gold or silver will ever outshine her chrochet.

Patricia A. Hare 9/5/2011

She sits quietly in the cushioned chair.
A book rests in her lap
as reading glasses rest on her nose.
The mantel clock ticks and tocks,
ticks and tocks, obedient to the pace of time.

Other sounds take turns telling her all is well,
the click of the furnace as it turns off and on,
the knocks and pings of the old house
as it stretches.
The scent of apple pie drifts faintly
from the kitchen.
Warm tea in a small china cup
rests on a nearby side table.

She sips her tea after turning each page.
It is a love story beautifully written.
She pauses to sip the tea and to remember.

Welcome to my blog. Read and feel free to comment.

I will share some of my poetry with you.

Morning In Snohomish, WA

The morning mist washes over the Cedars.
Gross Beaks and Sparrows still doze in the trees.
An opaque curtain of gray clouds
shrouds the mighty mountain tops.
It is the birth of a new day
not yet licked clean by wind, sun, or rain.
Innocence and evil also lie still.
History with its many secrets,
a product of man’s fickle will,

waits deep in the ancient forest,
It is the birth of a new day
not yet engraved by men,s choices.

Patricia A Hare

7/5/2012