Posted in Poetry

Winter’s Child

Your eyes are icy blue;

your hair, winter white.

The sun no longer warms us,

Try as it might.

Your skin is as cold

as the lonely moon.

The stars look on with envy

as they spin their frigid tune.

The northern winds chill us

as you whisper December’s name.

A blanket of snow, your gift.

A frozen landscape, your aim.

No harm is meant to us

as the ice crystals softly drift.

For the Winter Child’s heart is tender.

The snow, a winter gift.

Copyright (C) 2018 Penny Wilson All Rights Reserved

*With the onset of winter, I always think of my mother.  Yesterday would have been her birthday.  She was a “Winter’s Child”.

Posted in Poetry

Frayed Memories

My memories 
of you 
have become frayed.  

Tattered and worn 
around the edges 
from endless usage.  

They are not 
as crisp and sharp 
as they were yesterday 

but still 
just as 

Copyright (C) 2022 Penny Wilson

*Photo is of my Mother when she was a teen. 

**My friend, Chuck at The Reluctant Poet used the words
"Frayed Memories" in something recently and I was inspired
to write this poem.  I hope you enjoyed.  
Posted in Life, Poetry

Winter’s Child

The walls are permeated 
with the laughter and tears 
once shared

I fill the room 
as best I can 
with today’s sunlight

I open the window
but the breeze does not 
sweep away the past

A life once lived 
clings tightly

My fingers 
touch a picture frame

Frozen in time 
you cradle a child

I can feel the love 
in the smile on your lips

Your fingers 
brush the hair from my face

Behind my eyelids 
I’m swept away

I am once again that small child

You always 
smelled of lilacs

the memory of your face
is as vivid as yesterday

Other times 
it is but a faded shape in the mist

You are always with me 
a part of me

Copyright (C) 2018 Penny Wilson

*Today is not only the first day of winter but it also would 
have been my mother's birthday. This is something I wrote a 
couple of years ago. Although she's been gone for many years now, 
I still miss her terribly.
Posted in Life, Stories

Past lives…

I posted this in 2014. I’ve decided that I’m going to re-blog some of my posts that I feel would be of interest to newer followers. I hope you enjoy this piece. 🙂

Penny Wilson Writes


My very early childhood was unusual, to say the least.  My brothers, mother and I moved a LOT.  I’ve been told I was born with wheels on my butt.

After my mother left my father, she was married to a man for a few years that was a migrant worker.  As a family, we followed the fruit, picking as we went, to earn a living.  We lived in Picker’s Cabins or tents or the back of the station wagon.

This was in the early 1960’s.   Most people don’t realize that in the 1960’s, 83% of the migrant workers were white families, just like mine.  Today, the migrant workers are mostly Hispanic.  The working conditions are no better today, in fact in some instances, they are worse.

Most of the Picker’s Cabins had no running water or electricity.  Women cooked on communal stoves or over open fires.  The toilets, if there…

View original post 474 more words

Posted in Prose, Stories

A Talk With Mom

Hi Mom.  Happy Mother’s Day.  I miss you.  This is a pretty setting.  I’m glad you have a place away from the road.

I wish that I could talk to you.  There are so many things I would share with you!

Dave & Bruce seem to be doing ok.  Dave has found a woman that he really loves.  They’ve been together for several years now.  Bruce & Janette have carved out a nice life for themselves.  They have a nice home; I think you would like it.  It’s in a beautiful area.

Continue reading “A Talk With Mom”

Posted in Poetry

Birthdays and Memories

** Today would have been my Mother’s Birthday.**   I miss you Mom.   I know you are watching over me.  I can feel your presence very strongly at times.  I love you.  This is for you.  


The walls are permeated with the laughter and tears once shared.

I fill the room as best I can with today’s sunlight.

Continue reading “Birthdays and Memories”

Posted in Life, Stories, Uncategorized

Hardship for Mom

My mom was probably one of the most unusual people you would ever meet.  I’m sure a lot of people say that.  But let me just give you a sampling.

My mother is a complicated person to describe.  When I was a small child she had me believing in gnomes and fairies.  With her words, I could imagine a magical, beautiful world filled with wonder and enchantment.

My doll house did not have Barbie living in it, but elves.  The moving neon lights outside the stores at night were lit and powered by small beings (elves again?) inside that were throwing levers and turning knobs to make them move.  Every mushroom was an umbrella for a tiny fairy!

My mother could cook a gourmet meal over an open campfire and tuck us into bed that night snug and warm.  We may be living in a tent, but we felt safe and secure.  Mom made sure of that.

My mother raised 4 of us kids, mostly by herself.  She had no real education.  She graduated from high school and her chosen profession was waitressing.

My mother’s Picker was broke.  You know, the thing inside us that we use to “Pick” a mate.  Hers never did work right.  She married 5 times.  Badly.

We lived on commodities, pinto beans, peanut butter and pancakes.  One of my favorite meals to this day is fried potatoes, pinto beans and cornbread.  This was a meal we ate often.

With the wages my mother made, things were very tight.  There was NO extra money.  Mom would make light of it and we would have a pancake eating contest that night at dinner.  Because pancakes was all there was to eat.  If there was no money to buy bread, our school lunches would be a sandwich made on a homemade biscuit.

My mother would go hungry if it meant one of her kids could be fed.  There were times when she did just that.

One of my mother’s “Picks” was a man that picked fruit for a living.  So we followed the fruit.  Doing so meant that we would live where we could while traveling.  It might be a “picker’s cabin”, which was basically just a wooden structure to keep the rain off of you.  Or we might be living in a tent or sleeping on the ground.

If you ever want a real eye opener about this kind of lifestyle, you should watch the YouTube video called Harvest of Shame.   This was broadcast on Thanksgiving Day in 1960.

This video is about an hour long.  You will be amazed and horrified at how these people were treated.   There is one man in the video that made the comment “we used to buy slaves, now we just rent them”.  He was referring to the migrant workers.

In this documentary, they show mostly black people, but in the 1960’s, more than 80% of the migrant workers in the US were white.  White families just like mine.

Despite the hardships of day to day living, I had no idea that we were “poor”.  I was a happy kid.  I was loved and cared for.

Looking back, my mom is the one that had the hardship, not us kids.


Posted in Life, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Ordinary Miracles

I mention a poem by Erica Jong in a post that I did previously called The Ruined Book.  You can see that here if you’d like:

I was asked why I did not include that poem in my post.  An oversight on my part.  Here it is.  Enjoy.

Spring, rainbows,
ordinary miracles
about which
nothing new can be said.

The stars on a clear night
of a New England winter;
the soft air of the islands
along the old
Spanish Main;
pirate gold shining
in the palm;
the odor of roses
to the lover’s nose. . .

There is no more poetry
to be written
of these things.
The rainbow’s sudden revelation–
The cliché is true!
What can one say
but that?

So too
with you, little heart,
little miracle,

but you are
no less miracle
for being ordinary. 

Erica Jong

Posted in Life, Poetry, Prose, Uncategorized

For Mom


I started to NOT post this.  I thought it was sad.  But missing loved ones is sad I suppose.  I’m happy that she is always a part of my life.  For my Mom.  

The walls are permeated with the laughter and tears once shared.

I fill the room as best I can with today’s sunlight.

I open the window, but the breeze does not sweep away the past.

A life once lived clings tightly.

My fingers touch a picture frame.

Frozen in time, you cradle a child.

I can feel the love in the smile on your lips.

Your fingers gently brush the hair from my face.

Behind my eyes, I’m swept away.

I am once again, safe.  Warm.  Loved.

You always smelled of lilacs.

Today, your memory is as vivid as yesterday.

Other times, your face is but a faded shape in the mist.

You are always with me, a part of me.

Copyright (C) 2017 Penny Wilson