The journey of life
The feel of life
This is the journey to AH

I have journeyed to the land of AH

I have felt my way through life
Through this wondrous and miraculous gift of design

The most powerful journey is my creation journey
Which holds a sub-journey of overcoming the fear of creating
But I am made in the image and substance of God
And I could create myself
A God given right to expression

I do not follow the dreams of others
My own creation dreams are within me
I must expose them to the sunlight, to the gentle rains and thunderstorms 

Living has a hard core and without fear 
It is a bittersweet and beautiful journey.
                                                                                 ©Joan Chisholm










I am a little old grandma

mired in confusion, helpless as can be.

I’ve been hacked

one, two three a bad dream because

someone’s mean scheme

wicked, malefic, scouring minds

had some fun.


I am mad as Attila the Hun.

A wiz struck the blow

my identity evaporated, misplaced ethics

security breached, evaporated safety

what to do?


Enjoy bit of a fit, sit down, sob

No, not me –no, no

Return to my protected cave

a simplistic, secure, less threatening place.


A mouse ran to and fro

no one was unfriended

clouds stored water, apples were eaten

backing up meant hitting a wall

freeze my memory, hibernate,

stare at hieroglyphics not emojis

avoid viruses, worms, trojan horses










The Old House   



The old house looks abandoned.

The moss-covered roof sags with age and

scaffolding litters the lawn. 


I park the car and retrace my steps, tripping over gutters

collapsed and left to ruin.

I peek in windows and see wooden columns

between the dining room and living room, like

divisions of my past and present.


Could that room filled with dusty unfinished fur  niture

be the same room where we had Thanksgiving dinners?

Could that living room filled with stacks of magazines

 be where Christmas trees stood year after year?


Laundry hangs from beams in the old kitchen

where dried flowers once hung.  The bake oven is filled

with rusty coffee cans where fresh bread once baked.

An old wood stove stands where fires once

blazed and children’s winter jackets were left to dry.









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