Sunday, December 28, 2014

Embers Rekindled by Love

Marti watched the dying embers,
she pulled her sweater tighter
against the chill as she thought of
earlier November’s.

She watched on a mountain top
overlooking her ranch,
Watching light flurries of snow
decorating a Cedar Tree branch.

This was her mother’s get-away
log cabin to paint her landscapes,
She watched her as a child as her
art took many shapes.

Now alone in this world with only
her writing,
Alone with the scenery that an artist’s
eyes would find inviting.

“Mother, I can feel your spirit here,
and this is why I came today to feel
you near.”

Marti was an author of many books of
romance and love,
She was not waiting for a vision from
above, or a love note delivered by a dove.

No folly, no reason or rhyme,
To wait forever for her true love---
was not a crime.

She text her ranch for her supplies
to be sent,
Her stay would be long for her novel
was so passionate---her mind needed to vent.

She described in the content the lover, 
his hair, his eyes, his lips and muscular frame,
And now she had to give him a name.

His black hair, his dark eyes, his masterful lips
and muscles of the “Rock” with dimples that
completed the handsome face,
Could he be from another planet or another race?

He will be what I want him to be,
I can write what pleases me.

Long into the night she wrote,
She stopped only a minute to write a little note.

When she fell asleep---is lost in the memories
of her mind,
It is what woke her that left her confused and
her memory blind.

The knocking on the door was hard and loud,
The antique knocker proved solid and proud.

Marti stood by her bed---her hair fell in blond 
curls flowing down her back,
Her light blue eyes and kissable lips were 
taken aback.

She stumbled to the door without a peep hole to see,
It was probably the supplies they are now bringing to me.

Opening the door was a surprise outside,
Stood a black haired man with dark eyes
dressed in rawhide.

“I am dreaming.” she said out loud because
there was no one to hear,
“I am not a dream, I am real my dear.”

Fine, now the dream is walking and talking
she immediately thought,
She would not talk to a dream---she would
give it naught.

Until he stepped forward and said again,
“It is cold outside, my dear, may I come in.”

She watched as the dream walked in, and
her eyes had a mini-feast,
To fortify her weaken mind---I am finally
insane---at the very least

“I stopped by your ranch on my way to mine,
and Mattie asked me to deliver your supplies, and
I am afraid I came as an unannounced surprise,
of course this I can only surmise.”

“Forgive my manners, My name is Zackary Mills,
I just bought the ranch over the Blue Hill.”

Marti watched his lips as they formed each word,
She was not sure what she missed and what she heard.

When she awoke in mid-morning her supplies were
delivered by a ranch hand,

She said, “But I thought Mattie had sent them
by Mr. Mills who bought the vast bottom land.”

“My cell is now in a dead zone,
and I cannot text Mattie, I am here alone.”

The ranch hand shrugged his shoulders,
and left confused,
Well---she thought my mind I have finally misused.

So late into the night again she wrote---making
her lover in the novel appear,
Words marched across the monitor as her strokes
flew from fear.

Because she could feel Zachary's presents and smell
the freshness of the cold outdoors as she wrote without
She was unstoppable---her imagination was hopping.

She paused to make fresh coffee and stood looking
out the window, just then the man Zachary rode his
black stallion near,
Now---am I seeing a real man or a vision, as he waved and
again he called her dear.

The next day as she stopped to clean out her mother’s desk, 
and room,
She worked all day until late---the darkness rolled in with 
a gloom.

She found a diary of her mother’s in her favorite painting 
place---the attic,
And the words written in it made Marti panic.

It said on a page dated twenty-four years ago,
My Darling Zachary came today, and I had to
tell him before I sent him away---he had a right
to know.

I am pregnant with his child and my husband must 
not find out,
He is powerful and rich and never loved me---this 
he did tell and show, without a doubt.

Zachary begged me to go with him, and I could not go,
And leave the land my father loved so.

Father gave it to me when I was wed,
It was why Fred married me---and would
not leave ever he said.

And on and on her mother wrote---My Love 
Zachary died today from a fall,
When our baby had just begun to crawl.

She looks like me---thank you God---I did not want
Fred making her life hard.
To my surprise he worshiped her all the time,
and called her, “Daddy’s Girl”---she is all mine.

Marti held the diary in her hands for a long while,
Until ---what started as a grin---turned into a beautiful 

Yes, my real Father--- to me will appear,
And now I will know him this time---and no
one has a need to interfere.

Many times she journeyed over the Blue Hills
to visit his spirit there,
She might in reality be insane---but in her happiness 
she did not care.

They rode together side by side on his vast land and
up into the hills,
She rode her pinto Sugar and he---his black Stallion---
her Dad had many skills.

Those who saw her---only saw her when she was
riding with her Dad,
They said she talked and laughed to someone,
but no one was there—to them it was sad.

Many novels she later wrote---with him by her side,
She was his daughter, his dear, his pride.
Daddy’s Girl
When her hair turned white and wrinkles decorated her face,
She knew her Daddy was ahead of the human race.

His spirit had monumental claim on her life,
She had been a daughter, and a wife.

Times of lonely posturing left her strong,
To be weak-willed was wrong.

His spirit guided her over the years,
He waited---to calm her fears.

She was Daddy’s girl still,
White hair and wrinkles---was not her bitter pill.

When her last day on earth was here,
Daddy would return to hold her near.

PurvisBobbi44 is the sole author of these poems and if they are seen anywhere else onthe Internet or in print it was taken without my consent.

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