Becky Jane Dunham

Becky is a lifelong student of Mother Earth and is now learning how to grow with words.

For you.
An invitation to morning mist

 

The Mist off the lake holds magic

As it rises glistening, still dreaming

The New Sun shining through it

Dancing colors across the waters.

There is Hope in the Dew

(It deposits )on soft grass ,hard stone alike.

In the sounds of a newly waking day.

That first conscious Breath,

The first conscious Thought,

Awareness becomes Action

And Action becomes  in the Light.

The World settles into routine

That is comfort in it’s purpose.

Purpose finds the Mundane

In all the daily activities of sustaining Life.

Purpose is God (,or Higher Power)

God Given, God Driven, Devine.

Purpose is Grace.

Like Morning Mist on the Lake.

© Becky Jane Dunham

Digging Deep

I am an archeologist of sorts
A scavenger of thoughts
Excavating nouns, adjectives and verbs
So I can be an architect of words
Allowing phrases to come forth
To build a story strong from source
This place where I belong
And can perhaps construct a song
That comes from soul and heart
Where the world and I are both part
Of the chapters and the verses that I start
Where we share the melodies
Of experiences and memories
…….
 
To be continued…..

© Becky Jane Dunham
 

Life Lines

My life, my journey written in wrinkles all around my eyes and corners of my mouth. They march across my forehead and mark all down my cheeks: when I smile some are rather deep. When I squint and when I pout then they really seem to shout and tell the stories of how they each came about. Some come from tears and yes from frowning. A few from smiling while out on the towning . Others  are from sun and tanning; back then we didn’t know how very damaging and damning. Each one I own,I’ve earned and yes I’m rather proud of. These lines of life written in wrinkles that now define my face.

© Becky Jane Dunham

-

My memories are a graveyard I visit.
Where I place flowers, Rather than plant them (anymore).
I leave stones, rather than remove them,( piled{sp} up).
It is not a place of spoken words; Rather it’s of gentle thoughts.
Where things are seen behind the eyes(I’s).
Whether they are opened; even when they are closed (and shut).
An homage and yet and still; (still)…a quiet meditation.
A humming in and of the Heart. A vibration.
A familiar and now distant world; I see and smell.
I hear and touch. I will feel them alive.
More fairy tale now than real.
The only things that are mine truly; and truly mine alone.

© Becky Jane Dunham

Heart song   A Mothers love

It was in my heart
   You took me
A passage and a rite
   I made a vow
And kept it
   In giving you your life.
Because I was
   Just an empty vessel
Where you became
   A new light
I hear this music
  Deep within me
In the quiet
   In the dark
There are no
   Instruments  before me
I sing acapella
   From my heart.
                   EACH BEAT
                              EACH NOTE
                                        EACH BREATH
In your becoming…
   Than I put you to my breast.
                              I know you
                                           Don’t remember…
But I’ve (I’d) given you my best.

 

© Becky Jane Dunham