Those words

fashion woman notebook pen

Photo by Negative Space on

Those words you breathe

As you lay them on paper

Leaving your narrative

To unfold

Is your sanctuary.

You are a poet and a muse,


Recreating life.

Your words

Hang like notes on paper.

You will not

Be contained

But be set free

As you fill pages of a notebook

With a life

Waiting to be lived.









as snow falls on

A face wet with tears,

Blurry eyes,

Taking in a wintered path,

A white hospital room

With a lullaby to your 2 year old self,

My breath on your blue lips.

To a white blanketed park where i pushed you on a swing.

Me holding you in my arms,

A safe place.

Holding your hand

Until you let go


Becoming the young man in the dark blue beret

And khaki uniform.

Yet the wind blows

And the icy snow stings my face

As i walk in winter hearing my lullaby

To my young son

Who grew up too soon.


Surrounded by snow etched trees,

White dusting thinly spreading between you and i.

It is strange to think

How quiet it is here.

My cold hands sinking into shallow coat pockets.

The only sound,

My pulse drumming inside my ears.

Inside me lives

A place as bare.


As this one.

By. J. Hamilton

So close

dew drops on gray leaf

Photo by Ericson Fernandes on

wind chimes

Bang in the wind.

A stark contrast

To today’s blissful


And playful wind.

Not at all like the fierce wind that blows between the unsteady branches of merciful trees


Winter sounds so close

In this late fall hour.

wrapped in blankets

With my dog at my feet,

I am cocooned.

Sleep weighs on my heavy eye lids

As the whirl of wind

And shadow of leaves

Like lifeless


Tap against bedroom windows.

I am waiting for sleep

To occupy me

The way the wind occupies my landscape.



The sunlight

Lazily crept between the bare

Branches of trees

And along faded leaves

And crushed acorns.

I remembered the day that the sunlight

Fell across my father’s face

As he lay dying

In his hospital bed.

What day is it?

What month is it?

How many seasons have i been here

In this waiting place,

His eyes seemed to say

As the light danced on his yellowed skin,

His hollowed cheeks

His sleepy eyes.

A veil of silence hung between us that day.

Like the veil that lays between us now,

Of life and death.


I found you with a broken wing.

Under a tree on a hot summer’s day.

Struggling to stand.

You could not fly

Though you desperately tried.

I took you home in a box,

Placed you among my favorite flowers

As my son watched close by.

He knelt down to stroke your feathers,

And you opened your eyes

Small and black like shiny, smooth pebbles.

You watched him for awhile

Then you fell asleep. I moved you

To a soft shaded bed of hostas

To keep the sun

From beating down on your tiny

Broken body.

You were the hope I had read about in Emily Dickinson’s poem

Eventhough you did not sing.

Even though your heart stopped beating.


A different life

As you lay dying

I remembered the stories you wanted to tell

When you sat at your wheel

Hands of wet clay,

Clay caked between your fingers

As the vase spun

And each layer

Joined and weaved together

Over and over again.


Of waves and circles.

Each rotation,

A careful construct

Meditative almost,

Your mantra.

After you baked the red clay

You painted scenes from a different life

In neat invisible squares.

Those stories from Greek and Egyptian mythology

That adorned your pottery

Under the fine hairs of a paint brush

Became a landscape of real and imagined places and histories

In my childhood.

As you lay in your bed

That August morning

I wondered if it was true that

You would not be alone

After this life.

That the dutiful


Would be there to keep you safe.

Guide you to your next life.

J. Hamilton