Writes With Pencils

fiction, memoir, essays and poetry

Tag: Sorrow

Rosé-Colored Glasses



It’s not the intoxication of the vintner’s craft
but the decision to cast off dreary thoughts
and answer the call of a friend’s invitation
to celebrate the longest day, that tints the view.

The cheerful song of goblets toasting summer
a sip of southern France on Puget Sound
and commiserating on life’s sadness and sorrow
the shared absurdity makes us smile, then laugh.

Held up to the fringed horizon of lavender peaks
the apricot glow, embers of late northern sun
passes through bowls of blushing wine and turns
the world from intolerance, to a cupped embrace.

Making Love Alone


Off balance and
indifferent for days,
I made myself sink into
the everlasting light
the all-encompassing love,
to sink into the joy
of our spiritual ecstatic union
let go of my restlessness
and inhabit my body
to feel the depth of sorrow
it still holds
its tendrils wrapped around
the double helix of my DNA
each cell dormant with it
as spring turns to summer
and children fill the park.
As I fell back,
I surrendered to the thought of you
and felt the tendrils curl and bud
into tears from my belly
like sap rising
after snow melt
to overflow
until they pooled in my ears
and drowned out
the children’s song.

The Gift of Mortal Sorrow

View from Nepenthe Big Sur

I’ve come to Nepenthe to drink the pharaohs’ wine

and fall into the sweet sleep

of forgetfulness, free from all sorrow

and earthly misery.


A hawk circles, wings extended

to receive the breath

of land kissing sky at the ocean’s edge

a ménage a trios as old as the world.


The tree line, Chantilly lace of garter

on a woman’s thigh, painted toes of stony cliffs

test the water of the bath

fanned by air that won’t be stilled.


The enormity of the ocean

charmed by cliffs and hills

embraces them, Poseidon as Gaia’s lover

and Zeus shows no jealousy today.


Deer roam the hall of ancients, older than the gods.

Uprooted by storms and erosion

a giant falls, we weep

to learn again that nothing is immortal.


Not the monoliths who’ve stood

since before we knew the sun was still

that our blue world was not

the center of the universe.


Not the mountains

who crumble or disintegrate en masse

into the blowing atmosphere

from frozen land to blazing desert.


Nothing is immortal,

but stories grow and change

evolve as they are told,

forgotten and rediscovered.


The stories’ lovers are not the gods

but the tellers and the scribes,

singers, dancers and actors on the stage

who bind us, one generation to the next.


Not wanting to live forever

but craving the love of mother and babe,

I choose the life of solitude

writing words upon a page.


I thank the gods their hospitality

yet decline the pharaoh’s cup and part

from beautiful Nepenthe, not wanting to forget my sorrow,

for with it, I would forget my joy as well.

%d bloggers like this: