Six-String Creed
A snarling chord on a six-string wire, A kick drum punch, a bass desire. A jolt of static, sharp and real, On humming tubes and polished steel.
It’s sticky floors in a crowded place, The sweat and smile on every face. It’s leather, denim, faded jeans, And living out your reckless scenes.
It’s more than notes that rise and fall, It’s “us against them,” standing tall. A fist held high against the gray, To live your truth in your own way.
The soundtrack to a first-time glance, A long-gone, unforgettable dance. It’s woven deep inside your soul, The stories that have made you whole.
So let the amps begin to hum, For all the rebels, old and young. It isn’t just a passing phase— It’s Rock ‘n’ Roll, for all our days.
“Beyond the Blog” Pam Beach
Tu Me Manques (you are missing from me)
A landscape altered, a canvas bare, Where once a vibrant color flared. Not the ache of a love that’s flown, But a hollow carved in flesh and bone.
The English tongue, a simple plea, “I miss you,” it says, from me to thee. But the French, a truth more deeply scored, “Tu me manques,” a missing chord.
It’s not that I am in despair, It’s that a part of me is air. A phantom limb, a silent hum, The ghost of a familiar drum.
You are the book I cannot find, The missing word within my mind. The star that’s vanished from the night, Leaving a void of endless white.
So do not say that I am blue, Or that I’m lost in thoughts of you. For “tu me manques,” the heart confesses, You are the space my soul possesses.
“Beyond the Blog” Pam Beach
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Her Silent Vow
To the Other Half of My Heart,
The world is quiet tonight, and in the stillness, my thoughts drift to you. They always do. It’s a well-worn path, this trail that leads from my heart straight to yours. Anyone who sees us sees the laughter, the easy comfort, the unbreakable bond of a friendship so deep it feels ancient. They see the perfect confidants. What they don’t see is this—the silent, secret truth I confess only to these pages.
They don’t see the way my soul aches with a love for you that has nowhere to go.
We talk about everything, yet we never talk about this. This current that runs between us, the one we both pretend not to feel. We are a story of impossible timing, of circumstances that stand between us like a glass wall. I can see you. I can even feel the warmth of your presence when you’re near, but I can never truly reach you.
And yet, in the quiet courtroom of my own heart, the verdict is always the same. It’s you.
It’s a strange and painful magic, this choosing. It’s not the choice I get to make out loud in the light of day. It is a silent, sacred vow I make in the dark. I choose you when I hear a song on the radio that I know you’d love. I choose you when I see something that makes me laugh and my first instinct is to tell you about it. I choose you through the heart-wrenching reality of our situation, and I choose you over the easier path of trying to let you go.
Letting you go would be like choosing to stop breathing.
So I live with this choice tucked away, a bittersweet treasure. And I read words that someone else wrote, feeling as if they were pulled directly from my soul, and I claim them as my own secret promise to you:
I choose you, and I will choose you over and over and over again. Without pause, without a doubt, in a heartbeat. I will keep choosing you.
Even if it’s only ever in here, in the ink of this journal. Even if the world only ever knows you as my friend. That bond is a gift I will never forsake, but my heart will always know you as more.
You will forever be my always, until my last breath. My deepest desire, my most beautiful regret, and the one I will always, always choose.
“Beyond the Blog” Pam Beach
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Eternally Bright
An echo of laughter, a ghost of a grin, From the first day of school, where our story begins. Side-by-side secrets, whispered and deep, Promises made that we swore we would keep. Through awkward years and teenage dreams, We were two halves of a whole, it seemed.
Then miles stretched between us, a different high school hall, But a letter, a phone call, you were there through it all. The future was a canvas, painted bright and bold, A lifetime of stories waiting to be told.
But a chilling silence fell in your twenty-fourth year, A hope brutally stolen, replaced by a fear. In a grove of sweet blossoms, a bitter tableau, A chapter unfinished, a soul forced to go. The questions still echo, the answers unknown, A seed of injustice, in silence has grown.
And though the seasons have turned, year after year, The ache of your absence is always still here. You are not a cold case, a mystery untold, You are sunshine and memories, more precious than gold. You are the friend of my youth, eternally bright, A star in my heart, my unending light. You are not forgotten, you never will be, A part of you lives on, forever in me.
By Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog”
This poem is a tribute to a bond that was severed by a tragedy in 1985, a crime that remains a cold case.
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Oh, There You Are
In the quiet hum of a world that spun, A silent seeking, known to none, My soul, a traveler in a misted land, With a hollow ache I didn’t understand.
It searched in crowds and sunlit cafes, Through whispered nights and hurried days, For a melody it faintly knew, A missing piece, a kindred hue.
And then, across a crowded room, A sudden stillness chased the gloom. It wasn’t a shout, or a trumpet’s call, But a gentle, knowing, rise and fall.
My soul saw you, and in that gaze, An end to all my wandering days. It wasn’t a shock, or a grand design, Just a quiet whisper, “You are mine.”
Oh, there you are, it softly sighed, With an ebbing of a lonely tide. I’ve been looking for you, it seemed to say, And all the missing fell away.
Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog”
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The Casting of a Pebble
The world, a vast and troubled sea, Too wide, too deep, too much for me. Its currents strong, its storms untamed, A single soul feels small, unnamed. To calm the waves or change the tide, Seems far beyond my reach, I cried. The weight of all, a crushing stone, I cannot change the world alone.
But in my hand, a choice I hold, A single pebble, smooth and cold. Not meant to move the ocean grand, Or sculpt the shores of every land. Just one small stone, a simple thing, To break the silence, I can fling. A quiet hope, a whispered plea, This one small act belongs to me.
I cast it forth, a tiny sound, Disturbs the stillness all around. And from that single point of grace, A silver circle finds its space. A shiver on the water’s skin, To show the world where I have been. The first small ring, a fragile start, A beating pulse, a work of art.
That circle widens, soft and slow, Embracing what it comes to know. It touches shores I’ll never see, And stirs a leaf upon a tree. It nudges boats that drift astray, And wakes the dawn of some new day. Each ripple born of that first toss, Can never calculate its loss.
For in that ever-widening sweep, A promise that the waters keep, Another soul may feel the wave, And find the courage to be brave. Another hand may cast its own, And know it isn’t quite alone. And so the ripples multiply, Beneath the vast and watchful sky.
I cannot change the world, it’s true, The task is far too great to do. But I can cast a pebble in, And let the slow good work begin. For in that single, hopeful throw, I start a change I may not know. And watch the ripples, soft and wide, Transform the world from deep inside.
Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog”
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Thinking of You
In lines of color, soft and bright, A gentle, sweet, and welcome sight. With hair of rose and ocean teal, A caring hug, so soft and real.
A quiet touch, a tender grace, A gentle smile on each calm face. The tiny hearts that float and gleam, Fulfill a warm and happy dream.
No words are needed to convey, “I’m thinking of you here today.” So in this moment, held so true, My caring thoughts reach out to you.
Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog”
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To My Heart, You Are More
July 11, 2025
The house is quiet now, a stark contrast to the beautiful chaos of just a few hours ago. The remnants of our movie night are still scattered across the coffee table—empty popcorn bowls and discarded blankets. Everyone has gone home, but the lingering scent of your cologne hangs in the air, a sweet, subtle reminder of you. And as is often the case when I’m alone with my thoughts, they drift to you.
To the world, you are my friend. That’s what they see when we’re laughing so hard we can’t breathe, or when you’re helping me carry in groceries. They see the easy camaraderie, the inside jokes, the comfortable silence we can share. And they’re not wrong. You are my best friend. But oh, how that simple word feels like a betrayal to the symphony of emotions you conduct within me. To my heart, you are so much more.
I find myself collecting these tiny, insignificant moments and hoarding them like precious jewels. The way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you genuinely smile, the way you absentmindedly push a stray strand of hair from my face, the way you remembered that obscure band I mentioned months ago and played their song for me. Each one is a spark that ignites a warmth deep within my chest, a warmth I have to be so careful to conceal.
There are times I wonder if you feel it too. A fleeting glance that lasts a second too long, a touch that seems to linger. Or maybe I’m just projecting my own heart’s desires onto you, painting a masterpiece of hope on a canvas of friendship. It’s a dangerous game, this tightrope walk between what is and what could be. One wrong step, one misplaced word, and the beautiful thing we have could shatter.
And so, I pour my heart out onto these pages, the only place I can be truly honest. Here, in the quiet solitude of my room, I can admit that every “I love you” I say as you walk out the door is missing the “in that way” that screams in my mind. Here, I can trace the outline of your name and pretend it’s your hand in mine.
To the world, you are my friend. And for now, that has to be enough. But in the silent, hopeful chambers of my heart, you are, and always will be, so much more.
PB “Beyond the Blog”
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The Letter I’ll Never Send
To You,
The moon is high tonight, and the house is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat. It’s betraying me, thumping out a rhythm that sounds a lot like your name. It’s always in these quiet moments that the truth gets too loud to ignore.
And the truth is, I’m in love with you.
It’s a terrifying thing to write, even here, where no one will ever see it. It feels like a confession to a crime I didn’t mean to commit. It happened so quietly. It wasn’t one grand moment, but a thousand tiny, insignificant ones that built something massive inside of me. It was in the way you smiled when you thought no one was looking. It was in the kindness I saw you show to a stranger. It was in the way you listen, really listen, like my words are the most important thing in the world. I’ve collected these moments like treasures, hoarding them in my heart until there was no room for anything else.
When I’m near you, my whole world contracts to the space between us. I’m hyper-aware of everything—the sound of your breathing, the way your brow furrows when you’re thinking, the specific shade of your eyes when you laugh. And oh, your laugh. I think I could live on the sound of it. It’s the most honest and beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
But with this immense feeling comes an equally immense fear. It’s a cold, heavy thing that settles in my chest whenever I think of telling you. What if I’m wrong? What if I’ve built this all up in my head, mistaking friendship for something more? The thought of your face changing from warmth to pity is enough to shatter me. I’m terrified of that awkward silence, the one where I’ve said too much and you don’t know how to let me down gently.
I’m scared of ruining what we have. This comfortable, easy thing between us is something I cherish. To risk it for a “maybe” feels like the ultimate gamble. I would rather have you in my life as a friend than not at all.
And what if, by some miracle, you felt it too? A new fear rises. The fear that you would see the real me. Not the version I let you see, but the messy, complicated, insecure person I keep hidden. I’m scared I wouldn’t be enough. That you would get closer and realize I’m not who you thought I was, and the light in your eyes would dim.
So I’ll keep this here, safe in these pages. I will lock these feelings away in my ribs and carry them with me. I will smile when I see you, and my heart will do its frantic dance, and you’ll never know. It’s better this way. Here, in my journal, I can love you without risk. I can be yours without the fear of ever losing you.
And so, for tonight, and for all the nights to come, I’ll love you in silence.
Yours, only here. – P. ‘2025’
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A Breath Outside of Time
Beyond the measured beat, the clock’s insistent chime, There lies a fragile hush, a breath outside of time. It is not night, nor day, nor number on a dial, But in that slivered pause, I see you, and I smile.
The world inhales, it seems, and for a moment holds, A stillness in the dust, in stories left untold. And in that quietude, a universe we’ve made, A place where fleeting thoughts of you will never fade.
It’s in the halted glance, the coffee’s rising steam, The silent, sunlit motes that dance within a dream. The instant’s gentle halt, before the thunder’s roll, Your presence, like a vow, takes root within my soul.
So let the moments pass, let hurried hours flee, I’ll find you in the hush, where you are always with me.
Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog”
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Journal Entry: A Summer Evening 2025
The pen feels heavy tonight, heavier than usual. It’s always the quiet nights, the ones where the house settles around me and the only sound is the crickets outside, that my mind starts to wander. And it always wanders to you.
Do you ever think about it? About what life would be like for us if things were… different? If miles didn’t divide us? I picture it sometimes, in stolen moments. Little things, mostly. Waking up next to you, the smell of coffee brewing in our kitchen. Sunday mornings spent tangled in blankets, or arguing playfully over what to make for breakfast. Just… everyday ordinary, but with you in it.
It’s a dangerous game, I know, playing “what if.” But tonight, I can’t help it. My heart aches for a reality where geography wasn’t a cruel joke. Where a simple drive could bring us together, instead of hours on a plane, or countless missed calls because of time zones.
Do you ever feel that pang? That wondering, in the middle of your day, what our “normal” would be like? What routines we’d build, what silly inside jokes we’d create just by existing in the same space?
Sometimes I imagine telling you about my day, not over a crackly phone line, but curled up on a sofa, your arm around me. Or us just sitting in silence, comfortable in each other’s presence. It feels so real in my head, almost tangible. And then I open my eyes, and it’s just me, this journal, and the miles stretching endlessly between us.
I miss the possibility of it all. I miss us, the us that could have been, if only… if only things were different.
Always,
P.
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Coastal Dusk
As day surrenders to the coming night,
And hues of amber softly start to fade,
The ocean whispers, bathed in gentle light,
A tranquil scene along this coastal glade.
A figure sits, a shadow taking form,
Upon the balcony, serene and still,
Observing how the dusk withstands the storm
Of daytime’s heat, a quiet to instill.
The final blush of sunset paints the west,
A subtle glow where once the bright sun burned,
A moment held, a time for gentle rest,
As day’s long journey gracefully is turned
To starlit skies above the tranquil sea,
A peaceful close in soft tranquility.
Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog”
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A Kingly Hue
Where crimson’s final passion bleeds Into the calm of twilight’s needs, A shade is born of fading light, The gentle bruise between the day and night.
It is the scent of lavender in haze, The heavy drape of wisteria’s maze, The velvet skin of a ripe plum, The promise of the wine to come.
It is the heart of amethyst in stone, The color of a monarch’s throne, A dye for robes an emperor would claim, A costly and imperial flame.
A hue of wisdom, magic, dream, The surface of a silent stream That holds the last of sunset’s fire, A mixture of peace and deep desire.
Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog”
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Ego Umbra “I, the Shadow”
I am the ink that spills at close of day, A liquid shadow where the lianas sway. My coat was woven from a moonless night, My eyes are twin-lit lamps of emerald light.
My paws are velvet, hushed on moss and stone, I walk a world eternally my own. Each twitching ear, each scent upon the breeze, Is a language spoken by the ancient trees.
I do not roar to prove my right to reign, My silence is a far more potent chain. The sudden stopping of a creature’s breath, Is the only herald of my coming death.
I am the muscle coiled, the patient wait, The final, fluid spring that seals a fate. A ghost of motion, violence cloaked in grace, The untamed darkness of this primal place.
So when the jungle darkens, hold your fear, And know that something older still is here. A walking midnight, breathing in the gloom, The perfect predator, within my living tomb.
Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog”
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The Keeper of Stories
I am not the timber, the plaster, the stone. I am not the foundation, standing alone. My windows are glass, but that’s not what I see, My value is not in my new-gleaming key.
They call me a house when my frame is complete, When I’m hollow and silent on a quiet street. My rooms hold but echoes, my hallways are bare, I am only a structure, a shape in the air.
But then comes the laughter that rings down the hall, The frantic search for a misplaced tennis ball. The smell of the coffee that brews with the dawn, The small, sleepy footsteps that cross the green lawn.
I become the keeper of firsts and of lasts, A living museum of futures and pasts. The notch on the doorframe that measures the height, The smudge on the wall from a pillow fight.
My floors know the rhythm of dancing feet, My walls have absorbed whispered secrets so sweet. I’ve held the deep sorrow of tears in the night, And glowed from within with a warm, festive light.
The wood may be scratched and the paint may be worn, But these are the marks since the moment you’re born. They are not imperfections, but stories to trace, The beautiful map of a life in this place.
So I am not timber, or nails, or a roof, I am tangible comfort, I am living proof That a structure of wood and of stone can impart The feeling of safety, because I’m a heart. A house is a body, a shell you can see, A home is the love that is living in me.
Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog”
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Faces in the Glass
Three faces pressed to window pane, Blurred by sorrow, washed by rain. A home once lost, a broken vow, Beneath the California sky, somehow. The hardest choice a heart can make, To send away for their own sake. I stood alone and watched you go, The deepest pain I’d ever know.
My home became a canvas tent, By creek water, my strength was spent, and then renewed. The tracks my guide, With nowhere left for me to hide. I’d walk to work in waitress shoes, To fight the lonely, midnight blues. Each dollar saved, each tip I’d keep, While promises were buried deep.
By day I’d scrub, by night I’d pour The coffee, dreaming of a door. A roof, a room, a simple key, To bring my children back to me. The work was hard, the time was slow, But in my heart, a fire would glow. Fueled by your faces in my mind, Leaving the darkest days behind.
And then it came, that joyful sound, A home on safe and solid ground. And you were there, my children three, Your laughter filling it for me. The struggle forged a bond so strong, The place where we had all belonged.
Now twenty-five years down the line, A legacy of love is mine. A business owner, standing tall, I catch the ones about to fall. For in their eyes, I see my own, The seeds of strength that have been sown. I offer work, a helping hand, A chance to rise and make a stand. No judgment for the road they’ve trod, Just quiet faith and a gentle nod. For we can change this world, you see, One person at a time, like me.
Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog”
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A Feeling With No Name
It isn’t sadness, not the sting Of some remembered, broken thing. It isn’t grief, for nothing’s lost, No final line has yet been crossed. It’s more like smoke, a silver haze, The feeling of alternate days.
It’s like the ghost of a tomorrow, A joy you didn’t get to borrow. A phantom ache for a life half-glimpsed, A sentence that you left unlimpsed. The muscle memory of a choice You didn’t make, that has no voice.
There is a warmth behind your eyes, A silent, questioning surprise. You feel the echo of a word You almost spoke but never heard. A strange nostalgia, sharp and deep, For promises you didn’t keep Because you never made them yet. A sun you watched that never set.
You mourn a home with a different door, A room you’ve never stood in before. You miss the cadence of a laugh From someone on a different path. It is a heaviness and grace, For a time you know, in a place That never was. A hollow touch. It doesn’t ask for very much.
It has no name to call it by, You only know it with a sigh. It visits, leaves you feeling blurred, Both spoken for and wholly unheard. A resident of what could be, Who pays no rent, but lives in thee.
Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog
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The Alpha Wolf
The moon hangs cold and white, A coin of polished bone. I watch the falling night Upon my granite throne.
Below, my family sleeps, A tide of silver-gray. The patient forest keeps The secrets of our way.
My ears sift every breeze For the snap of a foreign tread. My breath is on the freeze, No wordless thought unsaid.
These scars that map my hide, Tell tales of tooth and claw, The strength I hold inside, The keeper of the law.
Beside me, warm and deep, My Luna breathes at peace. A trust the shadows keep, That gives my soul release.
The hunger is a fire, A duty, not a rage. To lead them, to inspire, To turn life’s brutal page.
So now I’ll point my chin, And loose a silver sound, Let the old song begin On this, our hallowed ground.
It is no cry of strife, But a promise and a prayer: I am the soul of life, And the pack is in my care.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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Woven in with Oblivion
I’ll love you when the mountains are unleveled, Worn down to grit by wind and rain. When riverbeds are dusty and disheveled, And stone forgets its ancient pain.
I’ll love you when the final sun has faded, And scattered all its dying light. When every constellation has paraded Into an uninterrupted night.
When history is a forgotten art, And all that’s made has come undone, You’ll find the echo of my beating heart Woven in with oblivion.
My love will be the warmth when cold is all, A law when other laws decay. It is the pulse that answers to your call, Past the last minute of the final day.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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Stolen Starlight
A piece of the night sky, trapped, Upon his smallest, outward hand, A raven-wing of polished stone, A universe at his command.
Within its depths, a velvet void, Where distant galaxies once burned, Now captive, in a silver band, A cosmic secret, deeply interned.
No twinkling star, no moonbeam bright, Escaped its polished, somber face, Just endless dark, a quiet night, Confined within that tiny space.
And as he moved, a subtle gleam, A whisper of what once had been, A captured dream, a fading beam, The night sky’s sorrow, held within.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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Between the Trees
The house stood stark, a place of fear, Where young years echoed shouts I’d hear. A choice arose, stark and so grim, To face the storm, or flee from him… No, her storm, that brewed inside, Where love and fury couldn’t hide.
So feet took flight, a silent plea, Towards the hills that sheltered me. Los Osos land, untamed and wide, Where secrets of survival hide. At twelve years old, a knowing deep, That in the wild, my heart could sleep.
My forts arose, in leafy space, A hidden haven, a safe place. Beneath the boughs, a whispered vow, To find a peace they wouldn’t allow. With sleeping bag and meager store, I built a life outside their door.
The trees became my silent friends, Their sturdy trunks, my fortresses. Each rustling leaf, a gentle sigh, Beneath the vast and watchful sky. I’d step inside, and turn my gaze, A fleeting glance at troubled days.
The scars remain, a map of pain, But in those hills, strength I would gain. For in the wild, I learned to be, The architect of my own decree. And though the path was rough and long, The trees taught me to stand up strong.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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The Silent Witness
I am a plane of silvered glass, A silent, steady gaze. I do not keep the things that pass, I only frame their fleeting phase. I have no memory, no will, No face I call my own, Just light to catch and light to spill, On a canvas of cold stone.
You come to me in morning’s haste, A stranger to yourself, To mend the parts that feel misplaced, A book put back upon a shelf. You search my depths for some new line, A worry that is thine alone, And for a moment, you are mine, A fleeting guest upon a throne.
I’ve held the bride in clouds of white, Her joy a brilliant flare. I’ve held the widow in the night, And worn the shape of her despair. I’ve seen the child, with wondering eyes, Discover their own small surprise, And watched the cocky youth devise A universe of charming lies.
I drink your sorrow, wear your dread, I mock the tear you try to hide. I know the words you leave unsaid, The brittle fortress of your pride. But all this feeling, fierce and true, Can never break my surface through. I show the outer part of you, But cannot feel the way you do.
The dust motes dance, the seasons turn, The wallpaper begins to fade. You are the lesson I can’t learn, A fragile, changing masquerade. And when you leave and shut the door, When all the light and life withdraws, I hold the empty room once more, And wait for you, without a cause.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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I, the Woman
The girl is still a ghost in me, The scraped-up knee, the wild-wept sea. But I am made of sterner thread, The words I meant, the tears I shed. My bones are not of reed, but oak, The day the silent woman spoke.
My kingdom is the life I’ve built, Of joy and sorrow, grace and guilt. My wealth is not in glass, but scars, Each one a map of fallen stars. I know my hands and what they do, They hold the old, they shape the new.
The throne I built is now my mind, Where memories and truths unwind. I rule no forest, but I own The seeds of every choice I’ve sown. My truest friend is my own soul, The thing that finally made me whole.
I do not watch from behind chairs, I pull one up and state my shares. I know the cadence of the lie, And I’m the reason it must die. I’ve walked the road and learned its cost, And found the things I thought I’d lost.
They dress me in what I have earned, The lessons that my body learned. My hair is wild or bound or grey, I choose the battles for the day. I write the lines, I speak the part, I am a living work of art.
So I am not of sand, but stone, A landscape that is all my own. The book is open, read me now, The story’s written on my brow. I am the harvest and the ground, The silence, and the piercing sound.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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I, the Survivor
This poem is for my daughter. It is from the perspective of the one who fights, the one who endures, and the one who is reclaiming herself, one day at a time.
I, the Survivor
I know your whisper, know your name, The loaded promise, the rigged game. I know the solace that you sell, A private heaven, a public hell. You were the fire in my throat, The captain of my sinking boat.
But the world you painted grey and bleak Is shouting color on my cheek. A cup of coffee, clean and hot, A simple joy I had forgot. The morning sun, a steady friend, A quiet and a hopeful trend.
You are the cracks etched in the bowl That tried to shatter my whole soul. But I am the lacquer and the gold That makes the story to be told A thing of beauty and of grace, I see it now upon my face.
This is a choice I make each dawn: The path I will or won’t walk on. It is a quiet, daily war, To not unlock my own cage door. It is the strength to say, “not now,” A small and yet a sacred vow.
My power is not a fortress wall; It is the courage just to call A friend and say, “I’m not okay.” It is the grace to want to stay And feel the feeling, sharp and true, Without the hazy veil of you.
So listen now, you fading guest, And put your hollow words to rest. You are the ghost, the fading lie, Beneath a clear and open sky. And I, the one who meets my gaze, Am the one who numbers all my days, And lives them now. The one who’s free. The one who is, and will be, Me.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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Sunrise Across the Miles
Across the miles, where continents softly dream, Two hearts awaken to the dawning gleam. In California, where the Pacific sighs, The morning paints its hues in western skies.
A world away, on Florida’s gentle shore, The sun ascends, as it has done before. Its golden promise, first on eastern tide, Where ocean whispers, and the palms abide.
Though miles divide us, friend, and time zones change, This single moment, nature’s precious gift, Unites our spirits, in the quiet grace, Of sunrise brightening each distant place.
You see the ocean, bathed in rosy light, I watch the mountains banish darkest night. Connected by this silent, shared display, A beautiful new dawn, across the bay.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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Forged in Fire
To the girl with the gasoline heart and the matchstick, reckless grin, living life like a frantic art, letting all the wrong ones in. I see you there, a beautiful storm, chasing highs in shadowed places, seeking anything to keep you warm in hollow, temporary embraces.
You gave your love to careless hands, your trust to those who couldn’t hold it. You built your dreams on changing sands and wept each time the current rolled it. You searched for kings in pauper’s clothes, for truth in every silver lie, and wondered why the garden never rose, beneath a cold and empty sky.
But listen close, my wild-fire dear, from sixty-four, the view is clearer now. Each mistake you make, each falling tear, is carving strength upon your brow. That impulsive flame you cannot tame, that fierce refusal to be small, will one day be the power in your name, the force that helps you conquer all.
Those men who broke you piece by piece were simply teaching you to build. They taught you what was not your peace, the kind of silence to be filled not with another’s noisy pride, but with the quiet of your soul, with knowing you have naught to hide, and you, alone, can make you whole.
So don’t you dare apologize for all the messes or the falls. Those were the lessons in disguise that taught you how to build your walls, not to keep the whole world out, but just to choose who walks inside. They tempered you, removed the doubt, and left you with nowhere to hide from your own light.
Go on and burn. Go on and break. Go on and make the choices I recall. For every misstep that you make is why I learned to stand up tall. You are the chisel, I’m the stone, the fierce beginning of my story. And one day, you won’t be alone, you’ll be a legend in all her glory.
And she is me. I’m waiting for you.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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How I’d Describe Myself to Someone Who Cannot See
I was asked a question recently that stopped me in my tracks: “How would you describe yourself to someone who cannot see?” A photograph would be a poor substitute anyway; a single, silent frame could never capture the truth of a life lived. The most important things about me are not meant for the eyes.
So, forget the color of my hair or the lines around my mouth. To understand who I am, think instead of texture and temperature, of substance and sound.
Begin with my foundation. I am not made of sand, changing with every tide. Feel instead for stone, weathered and solid, cool to the touch but holding a deep, ancient warmth within. Or think of oak. Run your hand over old, sturdy wood; feel the deep, unwavering grain that tells a story of seasons and storms. My bones are made of that. There is a ghost of a girl still inside me, one with scraped-up knees and tears that tasted like the sea, but she is now supported by this stronger frame.
Next, understand my surface. My skin is not a smooth, featureless canvas. It is a map. Do not look for its beauty; find its meaning. Each scar is a landmark, a ridge where a star fell and burned its way into me. Each one tells a story of survival, a lesson earned. My hands are not delicate. Feel the calluses and the strength in them. These hands know the weight of sorrow and the labor of building joy. They know how to hold onto the past without being trapped by it, and how to shape the raw material of today into a new tomorrow.
Then, listen. My voice wasn’t always here. For a long time, I was defined by a quiet that wasn’t my own. But that silence broke. And the voice that emerged is not always loud, but it is clear. It has learned the cadence of a lie and will not let it stand. It carries the weight of every choice I have ever sown. It can be the quiet resonance of the ground under your feet, and it can be the piercing sound of a bell ringing true. It is the sound of a woman pulling up a chair to the table, ready to state her shares.
Finally, know that my true center is a place you could never see anyway. It is the throne inside my mind, a kingdom I built for myself from joy and sorrow, grace and guilt. It is a quiet space where I have befriended my own soul and finally feel whole. This is my greatest power and my truest home.
So, how would I describe myself? I am a landscape, one that is all my own. I am the rough bark of the oak, the cool surface of the stone. I am the story you can feel under your fingertips and the sound of a voice that has learned its own power. I am a living work of art, and my story is written not in ink, but in substance.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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The Etchings of a Map
The creek was a cold companion, its murmur a constant reminder of all the things that flow away. I was seventeen and running, then twenty-five and building, then thirty-something and broken, a mother of three small anchors in a boat that had already sunk.
We learned the map of strangers’ couches, the geography of motel carpets, the cold, hard ground of a world that had no room. Their faces, small and trusting, deserved a world my broken hands couldn’t build. To give them solid ground, I had to split my world in two, a choice that tore the root from my own heart. It felt like dying, only slower.
My home became a sheet of nylon, my floor the damp, forgiving earth. Days were for scouring, bleach on my hands, erasing the dirt from other people’s lives while mine was caked in mud. Nights were for balancing plates, smiling, pouring coffee for ghosts who never saw the hollow in my eyes.
But a seed, even in stony ground, remembers the sun. Bit by bit, a single shingle, a scrub brush, a promise kept to myself. I learned that strength isn’t the absence of fear, but the single step you take while trembling.
Now, at sixty-four, I see the lines around my eyes, and I know their names. One is for the creek, one for the cold, one for fighting to bring my children home. They are not scars. They are the etchings of a map, showing the way from a place of ruin to a house built, finally, on solid ground.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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A Mother’s Embrace, A Daughter’s Strength
My Precious Daughter, My Brave, Strong Heart
When shadows fell and pain held sway, You fought a fight, alone each day. The bruises seen, the ones unseen, A silent scream, a shattered dream.
I brought you home, my precious four, To Morro Bay, to safe harbor. No more the fear, no more the dread, Just quiet nights, and soft, warm bed.
But battles rage within your soul, A different fight to make you whole. The alcohol, a cruel disguise, To numb the hurt behind your eyes.
My heart aches, love, to see your pain, To wash away the falling rain. I’ll hold you close, my steadfast grace, And whisper strength in this safe place.
We’ll walk this path, each step we take, For goodness sake, for your own sake. But darling girl, you’ll find it true, A strength resides, deep inside you.
The warrior spirit, bruised but bright, Will guide you through the darkest night. I’m here, I’m here, my hand in yours, To help you open all new doors.
But some of this, my precious one, Must be a journey, bravely run, By you alone, to rise and stand, To take your power in your hand.
You are so loved, more than you know, And watching you, I see you grow. Through every tear, through every fear, Your truest self will soon appear.
We’ll face it all, together, strong, Where you belong, where you belong. My heart’s with yours, through thick and thin, Let healing’s gentle light begin.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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Auburn Cascade
A river of night, yet touched by flame,
Dark auburn flows, a whispered name.
From crown it spills, a rich, deep hue,
Where hidden fires glimmer through.
Down past the shoulders, a gentle slide,
A velvet curtain, where secrets hide.
It dances free with every turn,
A silent story, lessons learned.
To waist it tumbles, a silken stream,
Reflecting starlight, a waking dream.
With every sway, a subtle gleam,
A vibrant current, a living dream.
Then to the hips, it softly falls,
Responding to nature’s quiet calls.
A wondrous length, a captivating sight,
Auburn cascade, in fading light.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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A Message From Above
From realms of woven starlight, pure and deep, I watch you stir and murmur in your sleep. A silent guardian, a whisper in the air, I smooth the lines of worry and of care.
You do not walk this winding path alone, For every seed of kindness you have sown Blooms in a garden I am sworn to keep, And drinks the tears of solace that you weep.
So when the shadows lengthen and you stray, And doubt obscures the dawning of the day, Look for the glint of hope, however small— My love is in the light that touches all.
Hold fast to faith, let courage be your guide, I’m ever present, walking by your side. And in the quiet moments, you will know A boundless love that helps your spirit grow.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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A Vessel for the Light
In chambers of the heart, where sorrows sleep, And echoes of a silent anguish creep, A tender current, gentle, soft, and low, Begins through shuttered, wounded rooms to flow.
It does not judge the reason for the tear, Nor question how the shadow fell, or where. It asks no price, it keeps no careful score, But simply comes and opens up the door.
It is the hand that reaches in the dark, To steady trembling, and to leave a mark Not of its own, but of a shared embrace, Reflecting dignity on every face.
It is the quiet presence by the bed, The silent understanding for words unsaid. The shelter offered from a bitter wind, A balm to soothe the agitated mind.
So let it rise, a river, clear and deep, To wake the weary soul from troubled sleep. For in the giving, we receive the grace, And find our own humanity in that space.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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Hope’s Bloom
In fields of grey where shadows lie, And silent prayers ascend the sky, When every road has met its end, And there is not a hand to lend, A whisper starts, a tiny thing, The quiet note a lone bird sings. That is the sound of Hope’s first breath, A stubborn life defying death.
It asks for no great, sunlit stage, It turns a lock, and then a page. It is the seed in frozen ground That waits for warmth that can’t be found. It is the thread you clutch and keep, While all the weary world’s asleep, Believing dawn, though long delayed, Is not denied, just unmade.
And when that thread is worn so thin, The doubt and darkness flooding in, When faith is but an ember’s glow, The heart prepares to let it go— That is the hour, the space between, A fragile, changing, sacred scene, When logic fails and reason sleeps, And something from the chasm leaps.
A sudden rain on desert sand, A stranger’s unexpected hand. The stone-hard soil gives way to green, A door where only wall had been. The fever breaks, the storm is done, A sudden clearing shows the sun. It’s not a trick of frail desire, But life itself, reborn in fire.
So which is greater, truth be told? The story that is new and bold? Or the small hope, that, blind and deep, Had promises it had to keep? Perhaps the miracle we see, For all its awesome majesty, Is but the child, brought forth to bloom, From Hope’s small, solitary womb.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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I, the Kindness
I am the whisper, not the shout, The gentle truth that cancels doubt. I am the thread, unseen, that weaves The space between the falling leaves.
I am the door held open wide, With nothing sought or gained inside. I am the patient, listening ear, The silence that can dry a tear.
My strength is not in iron forged, But in the quiet, calming word. I am the water, soft and deep, That wears the stone while others sleep.
I am the candle in the gale, Whose simple light will not prevail By force, but by a steady glow That shows the safest way to go.
I ask for no applause or crown, I build no walls to tear them down. A single stone I cast, and see The rings spread for eternity.
So when the world is sharp and cold, A story waiting to be told, Look for the warmth, the offered hand, The only tongue all understand.
I am the choice your spirit makes. I, the Kindness, for goodness’ sakes.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
The Inspiration
The inspiration for this poem comes from the idea of personifying Kindness itself. I wanted to give a voice to this fundamental, often underestimated, force.
The core idea was to explore the paradox of Kindness: it is incredibly powerful, yet its nature is gentle, quiet, and unassuming. In a world that often celebrates the loud, the strong, and the assertive, Kindness works in the background.
I was inspired by:
- Subtlety: Kindness isn’t a grand gesture; it’s the “whisper, not the shout.” It’s the small, almost invisible “thread” that connects us.
- Selflessness: True kindness expects no reward. It is the “door held open wide” for its own sake.
- Persistent Strength: I wanted to counter the notion that kindness is weakness. The imagery of water wearing down stone, or a small candle providing steady light in a storm, illustrates its resilient and enduring power. It doesn’t win by overwhelming force, but by persistence and consistency.
- The Ripple Effect: The final stanzas touch upon the expansive, almost infinite, impact of a single kind act, like “rings spread for eternity.” It’s a force that multiplies.
- A Conscious Choice: Ultimately, the poem concludes that Kindness isn’t an external entity but an internal one— “the choice your spirit makes.” It is a fundamental part of our humanity that we must actively choose to express. The final line, “for goodness’ sakes,” is a gentle, familiar plea, grounding this grand concept in a simple, human expression.
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Where Concrete Once Grew
Where concrete once a forest grew, A different kind of city grew. The towers rise in emerald-clad, A promise that the future’s glad. No roar of engines, sharp and loud, Just whispers in a silver cloud, As silent pods on ribbons glide, With sky-lanes open, far and wide.
The sun-sips from each glassy pane, And feeds the gardens in the rain. The walls themselves can breathe and sigh, Beneath a clean and hopeful sky. The streetlights wake as dusk descends, And know when weary travel ends. A gentle hum, a quiet grace, Is woven into time and space.
The children run on paths of green, A vibrant, thriving, public scene. The plaza square, a common heart, Where every person plays a part. For this is not a dream of steel, But something human, warm, and real. A city built to help us be Connected, thoughtful, wild, and free.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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The Native Tongue
Before you, I was a quiet room, A half-forgotten, half-remembered tune. I walked a path I thought was wholly mine, Not knowing I was but a single line.
And then you came, not with a crash or shout, But like a language I knew all about And had forgotten, till I heard your voice And felt my weary, wandering heart rejoice.
You are the steadying hand upon the helm, The quiet corner of a chaotic realm. You speak the words I never learned to phrase, And bring the color to my monochrome days.
I do not know what threads the fates may weave, What cosmic truths the ancient stars believe. I only know my search is at an end; My mirror, my echo, and my closest friend.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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The Silent Answer
There was a silence in her deepest core, A searching for a step she’d heard before. A compass needle spinning in the gray, A sunlit path she couldn’t find her way.
Then he appeared, a resonance so true, An echo of a song she always knew. No shock of new, no stranger at the gate, But a remembered turn of loving fate.
Her frantic pulse found its corresponding beat, A quiet cadence, resolute and sweet. The fractured landscape of her inner world Became a map with his own flag unfurled.
He is the key for which the lock was made, The quiet comfort, the once-missing shade. The silent answer to a question drawn Within her spirit since her very dawn.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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The Unbending Reed
From fragile years, a seed took root, In soil of struggle, bore hard fruit. A swift learned dance, to duck and sway, Protecting self, come what may.
Then roads diverged, a system’s call, Through hurried doors, against a wall Of changing faces, transient gleam, A restless, seeking, lonely dream.
Wrong turns were taken, shadows cast, Lessons learned, that fiercely last. But in the depths, a spark still glowed, A silent promise, softly sowed.
Then laughter came, in children’s eyes, A sunlit haven, ‘neath blue skies. Until the storm, it raged anew, And dreams were scattered, stark and true.
A mother’s choice, a heavy heart, To mend a world torn far apart. By creek-side tent, the moon my guide, With scrubbing hands, my spirit cried-
Not for defeat, but for the climb, To reclaim footing, conquer time. A rag, a bucket, hope’s first gleam, Washing away a broken dream.
From dirt and dust, a business grew, A testament, strong and true. No bitter echo, just a light, To guide another through their night.
For I’m a survivor, heart so kind, With strength of spirit, mind aligned. My story told, not to despair, But sow the seeds of hope, to share.
To rise again, when knocked to ground, A potent truth, deeply found. The unbending reed, through storm and strife, A vibrant testament to life.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
This poem is my way of capturing the spirit of survival and the power of hope. If these words resonated with you and you’d like to support my mission to inspire others, you can make a small contribution below, the price of a coffee, by clicking the link. Thank you for helping me share this message. https://beyondtheblog.org/power-the-next-post/
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Pamela Beach is a multi-genre author, poet, and lyricist who writes from her home on California’s foggy Central Coast. She is the creator of the “Morro Bay fog-mythos” and author of The Unstoppable You. You can read more of her work and explore her complete “fog-mythos” collection at her blog, Beyond the Blog with Pamela Beach