Summer's End

summer’s end

fall beckons and

summer closes

with

a heavy sigh and lingering

grains of sand

stuck between my

toes with

promise

hanging silent on a

sticky breeze

moist and forlorn

no regrets

except

for unseen sunrises and

faded tans

~Kim Jacobs

Time

why

did the

time we have

seem so

short,

though the

moments we shared

were

never-ending

while we were

together?

maybe

in some

small way--in

some small

moment,

as time passes by

we will remember,

but

all too soon

we forget.

I am here, between these pages...

I am not a poet. Yet, the poems come.

Not often, but once and again.

They come from pain. They come from emotion. They come from inside.

No rhyme or reason; they chase and hunt me down.

Or better yet, slip up unexpectedly inside me.

Tempting. Calling. Begging for release. To be owned.

Mine now.

If I am lucky, I steal time to write them down.

I am a writer. And the stories do come.

The words that ache to be said. To be read.

Fiction. Non-fiction. Truth. Fact. Lies. Whatever.

A collection, a rambling of thoughts. Made perfect. Maybe.

Some decades old. Some fresh and new.

Old souls, old poems. Baby fresh, new words and phrases.

Mine.

My thoughts. My meanderings. My collective wonderings.

My first poem was written in high school. Years later I found it in tucked in a piece of music in my piano bench. I remember when I wrote it. At the end of my first real boyfriend relationship. Thankfully, it is lacking in teenage angst, because if it were filled with that, you wouldn’t be reading it some 35 years later. I read it today and try to remember how that seventeen-year-old girl felt when those words came.

I try to recapture that.

This collection, my Turquoise Morning collection, is a mish-mash. A scrapbook. A patchwork quilt. Poems. Essays. Snippets of blog posts. Articles. Passages of fiction. All from a women who long ago realized she could express herself much better in words on paper, than words spoken. Who learned at a young age that expressing herself with music and art and writing, was much more safe than putting oneself out into the world in other venues. A woman who, for a lot of years, was pulled out of that comfort zone and found that she, actually, could survive. For a while.

Now, the muse is strong, begging to be set free, acknowledged and nurtured. Chased. Pursued. Captured. Found. Delivered.

I am me here, between these pages. I am more me here, than other places. More than I am speaking with you face to face, where life us unedited. Unpredictable. For here, in this place, in my world, I get to rewind, replace, repurpose. Edit.

It’s a lovely place to be. Welcome.