Wednesday, November 25, 2009

My Big Green Love Note

My love is not a poet
He doesn't dance or sing
He doesn't bring home roses
or gold and diamond rings.

But when I look outside I see
The love song that he wrote
It's made of grass and plants and dirt
My own big green love note.

It's filled with peace and restfulness
and beauty fully grown
It's a place where we can just escape
Without ever leaving home.

Thanks honey,
I love you too.

Caren E. Salas

Tuesday, November 24, 2009


Sleep eludes me like a child
   playing hide and seek.
I count to ten,
   I cheat.
   I peek.
Ollie Ollie Oxen Free!!
   Okay, you've won.
   I give up.
   I'm done.
No matter where I look around.
Sleep just simply can't be found.
So I'll just wait right here and see...
Perhaps in time, sleep will find me.

Caren E. Salas

She Waits...

The rain begins to fall, in drips
The clock up on the wall just ticks away
In fear of what she does not know
She looks out of the window
And she waits.

And as each moment passes by
She wonders when will it arrive?
The call, the news the clouds and rain
She sits in silent torture
And she waits.

The drops of rain turn into showers
The moments passing turn to hours
Raindrops, teardrops, nothing's clear
She tries to hide the fear
And still she waits.

The showers lead to stormy night
Daylight hours, have taken flight
Sleeping waking nightmares call
She tries but eyes won't close at all
She waits.

The rain begins to slow to drips
The clock up on the wall still ticks away
Her bed, the dark, a warm escape
Tomorrow is another day
To wait.

Caren E. Salas

Friday, November 6, 2009

True West

I'm not sure if it's the season, or the weather or what...but lately I have felt not merely uninspired, but unmotivated. My days just blend, one into the next, as though I'm just replaying the same song over and over.  I have heard people refer to their passions as their "true north", but my love seems to aim more toward a "true west". I turn to the ocean whenever my spirit needs to be refreshed.  I listen to the voice of the waves. I taste the salt in the wind as it bites at my face, and feel the flight of the pelicans as they dive straight down into the sea to catch their next meal.  When I was a young girl I used to swim under the water, and feeling my hair swirling freely, dreamed of being a mermaid.  My heart is made of seashells, my veins are strands of kelp.  My soul longs to swim.

A visit to the beach is what I need. Anyone want to come along?

Caren E. Salas