Where Secrets Live

There’s a place where secrets live.

They float.  In the sky.

Like thoughts.  In the mind.

They hide.  In storms.

In lightning.  And thunder.

In wind.  And rain.

In rays.  Through clouds.

At dawn.  At dusk.

Or deep – At midnight.

They’re yours.  Alone.

Not shared.  Not ever.

These are not the kinds of secrets that one thinks of when they see the word.  Those are usually tarnished with bad things.  Or they’re a really, really good and exciting thing that cannot yet be revealed.  Like a gift that’s waiting to be given.

Those aren’t the kinds of secrets I’m talking about.  I’m talking about the secrets that have no words.

Secrets of emotion that a person cannot talk about or speak of.  They have no voice other than how they make you feel.

Sometimes those secrets are of the pain of betrayal, of being stabbed in the back by one that you trusted.  The way that one feels when the rejection letter arrives.  When the success that’s yearned for is just out-of-reach and the haze of failure hangs like smog in the back of your mind.

When the hand of a loved one is held while they die and the holder is left with the memory of that moment of loss.  It becomes a secret that has no name and so it lives up above.   It floats in that emotion of loss.

It can be that sense of time passing and an emptiness that lingers, thinking about the miles that have already been lived and how much less is left, now.  That has no words and so lives above, floating, wandering like clouds that are lost yet waiting to be found before it’s too late.

The feeling that you wish you could change things in the world and make people understand that they are making things worse, not better, but they don’t want to see it.  It becomes a frustration that is like a pressure that no words can be sewn to.  That pressure ends up as a secret.

It’s not just the melancholy that floats, but other things as well.  Like the way that love makes you feel when you see a beautiful thing and it has no words.  Or when you are near something you love and when you stand with it and look at it, something about it makes your heart sing.  It’s just like when the sun comes through storm clouds in the most exquisite light show and somehow it exactly matches that emotion of love that has no words.

It’s a secret.

They’re all secrets.  Those emotions that have no words.  They are so private that you cannot and will not share them because you don’t have the ability.  So they become secrets that are only for you.

Because only you can understand them.

Ageless Eyes

Ageless Eyes

Her Ageless eyes run deep; so intense and brown.  With never ending lashes that are worthy of a crown.

Her hair is salt and peppered, signs of many a long day.  Her perseverance shines; work is her true play.

She moves along life’s trail, graceful to a tee.  Not stumbling over steps, no matter what the shoe may be.

She walks in many circles, but the trail is her home.  Freedom of the heart gives her a choice to roam.

Ageless eyes return her to a place where she feels sound.
Infinite, natural spaces, feeling free from any bound.

Rural open Earth, where she can  pick her steps and be. Places without clutter, where her Ageless eyes can see.


Ageless Eyes
By Liz Hughey
(C) The Cowgirl Poet

Author of the children’s book, Barney the Lopsided Mule
Illustrated by Bonnie Shields
Available on Amazon.com



Yamaha. Copyright Merilee Mitchell

That which goeth up must come down,

Thus as the piston swings out,

Over the open road,

So too may it wither through the passage of time.


Then when the once-eternal flame falls to nothing,

As if by necessity,

All things are brought to silence

In the shiny heat of the midday sun,

For the wheels of the world have stopped turning.


© Sean Everett 2014

Photographed in the Mojave Desert, California



Prince Of The Cracked Valley

Prints. Copyright Merilee Mitchell


Look out and across,

At the kingdom of your father.

Come down from your chambers onto the broken earth,

Feel the parched breeze on your face,

Guide your subjects wisely,

Lead them into the light,

For the cracked valley will remain,

In this world and the next.

Whatever will be, will be.


He went out,

Blinded and swaying,

Snaking his way across the realm,

His steps became laboured,

Breathing heavy, mind warped by the sun.

And there he fell to his knees and perished,

The last of his kind.

The cracked valley will remain,

In this world and the next.

Whatever will be will be.


The wind licked up in gusts,

Failing to erase the past,

Speaking to those of a lost age:

Great prince,

Your reign consists of impressions now,

For the cracked valley will remain,

In this world and the next.

Whatever will be, will be.


©Sean Everett 2014

Photographed in the Mojave Desert, California