Hand in Hand

dream in hand

A dream was held in the palm of her hand

She could see it

She could feel it

An ethereal wind blew across her brow

She breathed the dream in.

It became part of her.

Like blood and bones

Breath and movement.

Every day since,

Good times or bad,

She and the dream,

Now her reality,

Danced together.

Hand in hand

Embracing life.

Joy manifested.


By Deborah E. Dayen

Picture from Favim.com via Google Images

Looking for Inspiration

My arms are sore

I held on too long to things that robbed me

My knees buckle

I walked a hard path that strained without reason

My ankles are stiff

They are unsure where to set my feet on the ground

My neck turns with difficulty

I didn’t want to see too much

My shoulders tire

I carried burdens not mine


I sit in darkness

Waiting for the light

Knowing it will come

I’ve learned the lesson well

I always knew love was all there was

Now it’s found me


I can let go the greedy things that swindled me

I’ve found a softer path

Where I can step safely

I can see the sun rise and set

And put down the burdens which are not mine.


Because you loved me.

By Deborah E. Dayen


running on dunes

There was freedom

In her hair

flowing like ribbons behind her

As she galloped over the clouds and rain

To that place where no one claimed her

Except herself.

She breathed in the scent of love

And picked her way through the dunes

Til she found him


With the stars in his eyes

And comets in his hands.


She knew she was home.


By Deborah E. Dayen

Picture from James Arthur Foto via Google Images



You found me

Just in the nick of time,

Saving me from myself,

Stopping my slide into the abyss



You found me

And picked me up.

You dusted me off and

Thought I was beautiful.



You found me

And you held me

Like a bunch of flowers

You nourished my soul.



You found me

And then

I found you too.

Love of my life.

By Deborah E. Dayen

Picture by Googl Images



I quit

My heart aches

In places I didn’t know still existed.

Soothing words and touch,

borne of love that wraps around me,

take the edges off.



I have to go back,

One final time.

To clean up a mess

Not of my own making.



He used to say

“I quit. I just quit.”

And he did, a little more every day.



This will be the last time

I will fix the mess he makes.

The last time I will clean broken dishes off the floor

And the food he threw off the counters

And trash off the table.



Finally, I will be able to quit.


By Deborah E. Dayen

Picture from Google Images