poem

dark, rich talking clouds fall sleepily
away from the 
black hills beyond them. the clouds crawl
slowly across the fields, their dreams falling into the soil. deep in the earth, tiny black beetles turn their dreams into words and then into stories and legends, whose histories become memories, not soon forgotten.

swimming past the earth and the tall whispering reeds, there are tiny sparrows, whose heads turn to and fro, as they listen for the quiet stories of the earth. they know that the clouds have told them, the dark clouds have become brighter and filled with a soft light as their dreams become part of the earth's language. 

footsteps are heard above the stories and their telling, their quiet rushing and sliding noises soften and become very faint, as if someone were walking away. then the words unfold and dance about, as if they were not words at all, but small lilting children, whose spirits were free and filled with laughter.

then, someone finds a small box made of wood, filled with tiny treasures, buttons and faded leaves. it is a child. they hold the small box very gently and deliberately with only one singular thought and reason. Their spirit seems to shine higher and become lighter as they realize they have found something very precious. the world is beyond them, far, far away. they are only enclosed in this tiny, beautiful moment, discovering each small treasure within the small box with equal delight and surprise, detached from all else.


debbie schramer
2018

New colorful photos of bright hope......

haven't posted in such a long time!! really missed sharing pretty pictures and fun things here on my blog. hope you are all well and happy. 

the magical house......

weeds and vines covered the window laden room, other houses in the quiet, sleepy neighborhood looked on with indifference, yet longed to be like the magical house.

the girl walked by, her footsteps slowed deliberately to catch a wondrous glimpse of the old house.
she wished the voice of the house could speak to her of it's memories and the music played inside.

she wondered if anyone looked back at her from behind the ivy covered window. was there an orange cat walking quietly through the rooms......or little mice who had inhabited the old house for years upon years, undetected and unheard? if only she could see inside. she could only imagine with her wild and childlike imagination how magical the house must be, beyond the ivy and the weeds and the heavy feeling of time.

how odd this house was in this clean and manicured neighborhood, void of trees and meandering, crooked vines. how misplaced the other quiet houses must feel as the wild yard across the street beckoned to them.....telling tales of giant's mountains and elves who sang and nights filled with fairy tale stories and poems. the old house reached out as best it could, but still the immaculate houses sat quiet and indifferent, their hidden hearts hoping for even just one bright moment of living the life of enchantment the old house exuded. perhaps, when it is very late one night and every heart is quietly slumbering, the plain and unencumbered houses can break away to see.....as the girl longed to do....the running and dancing spirit of the old house and it's pages of time and story.

the little girl turned slowly and walked away with quiet, deep reluctance, going back towards her home, glancing several times to see the wonderful old house again, her heart partly staying behind to listen again to the voice of the house. her footsteps tread on down the sidewalk, taking with her such magical memories and words as to keep her heart alive. she was sure she would return again and again. she had found a favorite place, a place of dreams and fairy tales and the language she had remembered from her happy childhood.


debbie schramer 2017

poem

the bridge is a land apart

leading to fields of meadow flowers.....pale blue       yellow        bright orange.

soft crimson petals 

                             lilting quietly in the language of summer, a time of the fragrance of smiles.

the bridge crosses over shallow waters, speaks to tiny pebbles and soil that has been 

washed clean and pure.

      it waits for the silent traveler, whose footsteps are laden heavy with dark fields 

                                                                                                                  and heavier clouds.

across the field, i see the bridge. it is a vehicle to move my heart and soul far from this ground, 

this dark room, filled with rain and rivers overflowing.

i never knew a bridge could be freedom. it is a new planet, a different word and sentence for me to hold and remember. 

like an expanse of land empty and waiting for history to be made, beyond the bridge the fields are vast to explore. 

the bridge is a land apart, separate from each corner of the room. 

it is beyond me

as far 

as 

the eye

can see.

by me

the door

waiting does not always mean the door will open but still i wait.
sometimes, i walk away, i find another place.....a meadow, a path, the forest, the clouds.
the clouds take me away instantly. i can feel myself floating in them away from all this.

the wall, the clock, an empty table.....speak with their softest voices, it is your soul talking and someone is there listening. they are kind and quiet, they wait but the door is already open. a room that is always open.
a spiritual person, who is a friend but not seen. they are always there, you can trust 
that they will always be there.

hopelessness, weary from walking, waiting but the door is just there. 

i know i am not alone, but i am alone. if it weren't for that one spirit that always follows me,
always waits upon me
always comforts me,

i might lose.

i watch, i listen, i think about those who are around me. it is comforting for a short time to feel 
what their lives might be like, to open a door into a world other than my own.


by me

my poem

childhood is buried deep within oneself, not hiding but sunken into a memory, a silent lane under weeping trees, small sparrows watching quietly in a hollow of the forest. childhood is a silly bear, whose eyes are filled with enchantment and endless running. it is the silken, fallen leaves whose language we have all but forgotten, save for the child whose heart is the forest and sea, who understands all languages of the earth and the skies.
childhood, that waundering life of color and landscape far above the moon's universe. the children in us wait, but live without us......until we turn to see our own smiling faces, the face of our child.

an old poem by me

their stare seems as if it were a foreign land, rustic coats wearing in dark and cold.

jumping children, light surrounding.....light enveloping, new and different and dangerous, but silly, children playing in spheres of white.

as wild grasses play under the tall, sleepy trees, i remember looking at the green, beautiful leaves and thinking they were perfect. they were happy and giggling.

a princess, playing in a play, pouring shakespeare from a dream.

winter and bears, cotton horses and water rippling with beams and glistenings.

winter and windows and light and memories.

and grey shadows, quiet

grey

shadows 

by me

Amazing new movies out soon......