Somewhere between Betty Crocker and Gloria Steinem, Dobie Gillis, and Captain Kangaroo, my personality was formed. I didn't trust anyone over forty, and dreamed of flying away to Neverland. I landed, instead, in Everland. I discovered the flowers were here all the time. Betty Crocker and Gloria Steinem conformed. My mother was right. I was liberated long before I knew what the word meant. I no longer desire the world, just my own place of service, and the courage and strength to do whatever I was meant to do.

I was born in Polk County, Florida. I have an inborn respect and love for the South, the land of my heritage, the land upon which I first drew life and the soil to which I shall someday return. I have studied my family's genealogy with great interest. I enjoy a rewarding career in the legal profession, and write poetry, short stories, essays, and articles on various subjects, several of which have been published. I have two sons and a daughter.

I am a member of Florida State Poetry Association, Florida Writers Association, Florida State Genealogical Society, and Southern Genealogist's Exchange Society. I enjoy yoga, zumba, pilate, and cardio biking.

FairEllen's Court is a place for those who, like me, refuse to abandon their dreams, for those who value freedom, privacy and independence -- all precious gifts. I invite you to share your own poetry on my Guest Poet's page. Please submit your work to fairellen1@yahoo.com. All submissions must be your original work, and I assume no responsibility for copyright violations, omissions, or errors. I observe a one-time copyright privilege with the rights returning to you upon publication. My own writings are copyrighted by FairEllen's Court, all rights reserved.

A heart fulfilled is its own reward. A restless heart seeks expression.

It's salvation is poetry.

Day blends softly into night,

tangerine sunset

returning me to enchanted pacific shores.

Cool california breeze,

verdant seaside paths

singing a new and passionate song

in opiate ocean air.

Simplicity, elegant grace, cool mint skies,

southern breeze feeling you

and tangerine sunsets.

Because you write

I have lost my sobriety

You dance inside my mind

Where no one else can see you

On wings I voyage through cobalt skies

That my wings might brush against you

Just one time

Now and then, in spare moments, I paint a word picture,

a stroke at a time

distant moments, distant thoughts guide my touch --

gently, I hope.

Yet, from deep within my conscience,

the lightning flashes, my words shake,

and the axis of my world trembles.

My picture is only a word recorded for the moment

a hundred years from now,

no one will ever know,

or care.

If I held the Master's brush within my poet's hand

I would not change the colors God has stroked upon my land

For who could paint a sun-pink sky on a canvas blue

And who could paint a friendship in so beautiful a hue.

I would not change the emeralds in magnolia trees so tall

Nor would I change the rainbow, I'd change it not at all.

I could not mix such colors in a shaded garden way

To match that of our Master, who did it in a day.

I would not change my clear blue tears, nor would I interpose

For I could never match the grace of healing from above.

Nor would I change the mocking bird who sings at morning's light

I would not change the midnight blue, only seen at night.

I would not change one twinkle in the brightest of the stars,

And I would not take one moonbeam, not one would I discard.

I would not change the strokes of gray now showing in my hair,

For it was my Master who chose to place them there.

For if a day should dawn upon me when I could not see again,

Then it would be this canvas God so generously did lend

To help me paint the colors that my mind would then recall

No, I would not change the Master's art - it would not change at all.

I have forgotten myself,

and words elude me.

phrases pass to uncaring ears.

Play the songs, free the doves,

heal the wings allow

me to give what I once gave.

The shape of day is

only another evening at sea,

churning, rocking,

my world is tilting, again.

The familiar air of summer,

and the scent of jasmine

demand words.

Yet, words elude me.

But tomorrow is another day -

this side or the other side.

I am a ragged traveler

listening to the rythmic sounds of time racing.

I watch passing scenery no more,

for I have traveled this road many times.

No matter how far I go, I know

I will always take the slow train back to where I began.

My life is no longer made up of hours and minutes,

but divided between where I have been, and where I am going.

The City of Reality flashes by,

a world I fought long and hard to avoid.

I will step off here, just for a moment,

before I catch the familiar train back home.

I've seen many quiet mornings

where shores are washed clean

of the gulf's mysteries

brought in by rolling tides

driftwood resting on shores,

seagulls soaring high, and free.

I've watched summers come

and seasons go,

a million times, it seems.

But I have never seen a true indian summer.

I have philosophized and memorialized

life, death, love, and fantasy.

I have walked in lands

where I pray to never walk again,

mercifully led to a healing stream

where broken hearts are mended.

Ignoring life's mocking chants,

I chose my own paths,

never letting go of my dreams.

I have confronted life's transitions

with energies I did not know

I possessed.

Refusing to be imprisoned

in a narrowness,

I am forever grateful for

all I have learned, and

for deliverance from the hells

where my choices

could have taken me.

I have learned to awaken

and not wonder why.

Listen to my song!

I have heard the echoes of the world.

I look forward now to the colors

of my own Indian Summer.

"Tara - I'll go back to Tara...After all, tomorrow is another day."

Was there a time when I,

summoning you from darkness,

clung to chill, silent promises

which, in my mind, rocketed into a

sky where dreams come true?

Was there a time when you,

descending from your kingdom of

your pompous realm,

spoke to me of fervor beyond hours

when your day was done?

Ah, alone was paradise for a time,

but winter brings desires

to the most ordinary afternoons.

Today it is not fear from which I beg relief,

but it is the gyroscope of nothingness.

Deliver me from clutching tightly

the trophies of regret I earned

while struggling for liberty.

Show me a time for remembering,

and a time to forget.

May I stand straight and tall,

so that I may see tomorrow

before I fly away.

From ivory keys your song enfolds me.

Your melody sits by my side and whispers sweet calm.

I am but a face in the crowd, yet

your song fences me from loneliness

like wings, transports my heart

to unknown spheres,

a guiding star when darkness falls,

or rain blinds my way.

And should death take us,

one or the other,

your song would not end.

I have learned to walk slowly,

move at the pace of nature

and swaying trees

by doing so, I am free.

Autumn and winter blend

softly into a new season

and I sing a new song.

I am ever mindful of where I have been.

I feel an earned wisdom

when my daughter asks about life, and

I share the dreams I always felt

were only for me.

Outside, the bright sun tells me

I am totally alive,

and promises to linger

a little longer this day.

My healing has been slow, but complete,

and the sands of time have turned golden,

just as the glad reunions I know lie ahead.

Sounds,

taking the shape of yesterday,

clear waters around

profound,

unspeakable beauty

that keeps on growing.

Time-worn memories,

effervescing spring,

blue, unclouded,

unrouted,

undemanding, liberated

the forever spring.

Colors of life

prancing through thoughts

dreams fly

up high

following the sun,

awakening there.

Now feeding on that day

years ago, holding

onto stars

afar,

and colors, as

colors go.

The memory keeps growing.

Never will there be

a spring so blue,

or you.

I am beyond Lithia,

but never beyond

that day.

(Hermit of Pass-a-Grille)

The storms have worn away a good part of the beaches,

and the house that Silas built holds only the ghostly remains

of home-crafted furniture,

the structure russet brown from sun-dried rains.

The seagulls still call the fraying pilings home,

and the tired silhouettes of half-fallen docks

are framed by a miraculous sunset,

the beauty of which, in contrast, is eternal.

There is no music from the sands, for Silas is gone.

But the waters still chant his songs.

By his silence, he has spoken.

I will always feel at home

near the house that Silas built.

I know of a place called Never

at the end of a Night called Day,

down the trail of wandering

to a place called Far Away.

Softly it beckons - softly -

from a time that I call Gone

into a golden sunset

to a place known as Beyond.

I pause to read a page from

the book I never wrote,

and survey the Hill of Never

through a new kaleidoscope.

Then on to the land called never

at the end of a Night called Day,

and down the River of No Return

to a place called Far Away.

Perhaps it is time to lay down old burdens

and get on with life.

Perhaps it is time to forget a past,

which past has long been gone

time to inhale a new breeze

blowing unexpectedly into my life,

or build a new bridge

that leads to the future.

Perhaps it is time to say the goodbyes

I never had a chance to say.

Perhaps it is time.

THEN AND NOW

I can hear the drummers drumming

(I can feel the Eagle's tears)

I can hear the cannons bursting

(I can feel my dear son's tears.)

I can feel the hot fires burning

(I can feel the nuclear heat)

I can hear the horses gallop

(I can hear the mothers weep)

All the wars and mighty battles,

those now past and those to come

all wars to keep our Eagle free -

God, bring our soldiers home.

I sat beneath the apple tree waiting for you all day

writing poetry, sculpting real feelings,

from a garden of silence.

There, I became an independent woman,

ignoring man's demands

to be fruitful,

for I am not the apple tree,

only in love with the lover of its fruit.

The dream we shared became my obsession.

Without restraint or inhibition, in mellifluous tones,

we loved.

The world hushed, and you breathed into me

new life.

("What is real?," asked the Velveteen Rabbit....)

Sometimes I dream of olden days, times I've wished to see

I often travel down those trails that softly beckon me

to castles there beyond the trees that reflect the sun's gold gleams,

knights and dragons, ladies fair, all real within my dreams.

I see fierce dragons by the shore, my castle on the hill,

a knight in shining armor, and horns loud and shrill.

I see a ship there in the sea, tall sails above the tide

maidens weeping by the shore where their brave warriors died.

I see blue waters, forests green, big shadows in the woods

mysterious dragons creep around Arthurian neighborhoods.

My dreams are all so clear and fresh (they're only dreams, I know)

but when I need a light repose, into my dreams I go !

Often when I'm lonely and tomorrow's far away,

I wander to the dreamer's place, on shores of Poet's Bay

The aroma there is friendly, fires are soft and warm,

inviting weary travelers to rest there from their storm.

I go there in wee hours to see what I can see,

perhaps to read a verse or two, and have a cup of tea.

Always I find comfort by a fire that crackles bright

it is a special haven where my heart can go at night.

Some nights when memories haunt me, those nights my eyes grow damp,

I wander quietly then into the Poet's camp,

and on those nights I read the words and leave my own unsaid,

but always I find comfort on the shores of Poet's Bay.

When time shall pass, then at last, my sonnets I shall write

When I am aged, on gilded page, with memories burning bright,

I shall pen of thoughts within before those thoughts take flight.

On quiet days with golden phrase, I'll write for memory's sake.

Like fresh dew found upon the ground, new songs my heart will make

Though I grow old with things untold, love still is much awake.

Love does not die as time goes by, but sweetly lingers on

I'll sing my song with passion strong, and tell of loves I've known.

For none can tell of love so well

as she who has loved but one.

The Gulf of Mexico

I look over the immeasurable expanse of the gulf, beholding its grace,

never taking for granted its magic and mysteries.

Wading into vast Waters of Time, captivated by warm foam,

there is no time to fear undertows, the illusive perils.

I have loved these waters, perhaps since before birth,

the phosphorescent waves pinnacled with unblemished hope.

I frame this image, never to forget the purity, beauty, and peace.

These waters are the response to my every emotion,

the shores where love entered my life

and beaches where I found healing when love was gone.

Kissing the graciousness of the waters, touching its white pearls,

I know the magic will remain until the end of time,

when the angels will whisper my name,

and I will make my final flight from this star-gleamed shore.

On the wings of time we fly, you and I,

releasing all illusions that separate us.

You are a solid unshaken mountain

and I am scattered wildflowers

lying helpless on the ground.

Lift me up.

You are the evergreen high on the mountain,

I am the stream that flows deep into your core.

I feel loved,

and that alone is far above all my other aspired dreams.

Breaking away is not always letting go of hope, but somehow palliates the pain.

I have refused to let another make my choices and thus have chosen

an unknown path that is unparalleled to any inferior standard.

Even though I am forever bonded to that which I am free,

I control my own destiny.

And by that choice, my life is extricated.

You have dried my tears and calmed my fears by speaking one kind word.

That word is "friend," as once again your gentle voice I've heard.

My tears now dry, again I fly, and I sense a magic wind

My soul is free, you fly with me, my hope no longer dim.

The storm-driven bird, whose voice you've heard,

now flies in whispering winds.

My faith returned when from you I learned

"wounded birds can fly again."

There was something mysterious about the way the light shone

through the old woman's hair.

Even too-strong perfume had a certain hypnotic effect.

She opened a brown paper bag and sprinkled her last crumbs

to the few birds gathered around her.

They took flight - taking her treasure to heaven

to lay before The King.

Look far into your heart and see the dreams that softly grow

Listen and you'll hear the winds that only lovers know.

And you can hear the angel wings as they begin their flight

You can feel the magic of this very special night,

A special night that's only seen by dreamers as they dream,

A night to sift and softly cast your thoughts upon the wind.

Somewhere there is a special heart whose heart awaits your own

And together we will ever fly to worlds of dreams unknown.

I seek the silent chamber, my heart the only sound

Watching dream-built castles crumble to the ground

Condemning not my yester-years, though some have been betrayed

One last look, I journey on to new castles I have made.

Within the castle walls I kneel in this, my tranquil place,

And in a quiet darkness, a peace, a still, a grace.

And breathing now a silent prayer, resolving all fate's schemes,

The wind beneath my wings, I fly, and dare to dream new dreams

(Dedicated to the memory of my mother, who is now

safe in the arms of Jesus)

~

"Amazing Grace..."

(her soft, yet strong voice, a benediction,

falls softly on my mind.)

"I won't have to cross Jordon alone..."

(I know she sings though she has landed safely on the shore,

her broken body made whole.

The memory of her life drowns the fears I have in my own.)

"I come to the garden alone..."

(Walking among the green, I embrace a single yellow leaf,

the last of the season.)

Weave for me a crown of flowers, and give me wings to fly

And on the day I fly away, lift me, oh so high

Give me strength to sing my song and reasons, then, to smile,

And when I'm gone, you will hear my song, and know I've learned to fly!

Weave for me a rainbow, and watch, then, for its light,

And when I've gone, it will shine on,

my candle in the night.

AND WE KNEW LOVE

There was a time where the forest, green upon green,

climazed in an endless communion of things yet to be.

The pines whispered omens of the finite distance, the frolicking yearlings

keeping a vigil to toll the time.

Yet quietly searching, your hand touched mine.

And we knew love.

And now, years long past, I retrace each day with words,

the pages drenched with tears seen only by me.

I scan the universe for just a fragrance of times past,

but there is nothing.

Nothing.

Awake at last, I pray you will come to me before winter,

before the waning of the bloom and fading of summer,

to pluck a trembling, fading rose before its petals close.

I have been content to be me, all these wasted years,

in my solitude of scented dreams.

Come to me...before winter.

God chose to give you wings, and I watched as you flew away.

You told me you would speak through a rose.

I have heard your voice, and at last I free you to the magic winds.

Thank you for teaching me how to love.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

because Mr. Rogers made it so.

Gently embracing the children and nature,

turning frowns upside-down.

He wanted every child to laugh, asked questions

about the grass and deer, lakes and twilight,

so that he coudl share his world.

To the man in the red sweater,

who taught the world to talk to trees, birds and grass blades --

Goodbye, Mr. Rogers ...sweet dreams.

Candles in the night, burning bright,

smoky velvet strips of soft leather

some call it fire, some desire,

blazing red doesn't tell

whether it is incendiary.

As emotions weave, inhibitions leave,

and every cry is soft, soft as heather

the slow lunge of night, so right

tintinnabulation, and soft...soft leather...

transparent sensuality

I am a boomer.

I pray while my children sleep

in their own comfortable homes.

I wonder where the economy is going,

and if I will be old and working,

trying to pay for the pills

that keep me alive, or if I will even be alive.

I sometimes feel like a lonely, frightened bird.

I let my silence speak for me, wishing

I had spoken louder for the causes I believe in.

I somehow lived in a fantasy land that baby

boomers would always be babies, and

never grow up -- but I grew up.

My wings have served me well.

But like all things, they are tattered and worn,

and it seems all the fears of my lifetime have

gathered beneath them -- begging for the

shelter they once knew.

I am tired. I stroke my memories, and cling

to the truths I have always seemed so sure of.

I scurry from thoughts of death -- not that I

am afraid to die, but that I would be separated

from those I love. In the same thought,

I am ever grateful that I will see those I love again

Secretly, I fear aging, and hate the

unrepentant thief who will steal from me.

A woman rushing in every direction,

hoping that some frantic move will ease

my fears, and canonize me forever.

Show me a flower, dried and shriveled,

and I will give thanks for the seeds it will bear.

Show me the storm clouds, and I will lift my eyes

to the heavens, and watch for the sun.

Today I am thankful for God's grace.