Good morning. Yes, it is morning where I am. Most likely afternoon and heading towards evening near you. May the days and nights for you be blessed and encouraging going forward this new week. And evermore.
At the moment, my creative life is a bit dulled. Im listening to books on tape to fill my mind with imaginative feasting. I chanced upon Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago 1918-1956 while reading a June 2018article written in First Things.
Two hours into the book and several poems popped out at me. I love to listen 🎧 and take notes 📝. It helps greatly with my concentration and my comprehension. The takeaway from the first two chapters? Nefarious ideas in the wrong hands are dangerous. Every heart bleeds dark.
How to tell the truth.
the pottery, thrown from the cupboard lay in pieces, a heap to bury laughter of the past
they hurry you to frighten you
their names slip into insanity forever vanished from blue sky broken branches of a dying tree
shaking dumping the crunch of littered leaves under foot
notice the still orange flower silent repression without the freedom to rise caught in light rays turning future seeds into prisons
the passing of past into future without a map now becomes silent paths in the gardener’s hands
“If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?” Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
the stillness of earth a song well versed and rehearsed watch my shadow crawl
What is going on with you creatively?
The haiku is taken from an expressive arts class 4/3/2020. The photo is from 10/6/2020. Life has been a bit hectic lately. Changes in my life never cease. I put a halt to my REACE training midsummer due to conflicts. My training will resume in February 2021, with a new venue out of San Diego CA.
I look forward to continuing the expressive arts as they bring me much calmness and energy. A centering of my heart is needed in the tumultuous times we find ourselves. And I am rather certain for time to come. Although others I know are feeling a respite coming. My thoughts are knowing whether it is a false peace trembling to capture imagination and souls. Or something so luminous we will barely be able to stand.
My plans going forward, once I am able to mentally give energy to all my dreams, is a new blog, Shed 33.3, to replace Soul Signs, which will incorporate all my life loves. 🥰🥳🎈🎈🎈 Although this blog will remain indefinitely as it captures the impermanence of my being. And of nature’s caress. The rawness, the muddy waters, and the hidden aspects of growth, unequivocally shared.
So stay tuned! And please consider contributing to the adventure with your soulful poems, The Poet’s Wonderment, Gift Crow, Vol 1. Read about this endeavor here. I can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
—I am only one. I couldn’t hold you or let you go. So we both suffered sunburn.
You are further away from me than I care to acknowledge. Nothing remains to settle my thoughts. I dangle my feet in the shallow; you wade knee deep. I dress in green and swirled turquoise. Beads adorn my hair, swept in a bun. The water laps our passion and icy hearts.
Why do we limit ourselves? There is no simple answer.
Life is a celebration and we miss out on possibilities, cornering ourselves into a box. Unless that box is shut off from the world, by well-meaning friends or loved ones, we should not be afraid to be used. (But never abused.) If someone chooses to pick us, color with us, there is no need to cry. A lonely crayon is perfect. A used crayon, worn from tired hands, are memories to linger, lines in the sand.
Happy day to you. Just be. Linger a while in the joy of whatever color(s) you are today. What color are you at the moment? Feel free to let the world know in the comments. ✌🏼 🌈 🎨 🎶🎶🎶
***This is a post from June 2018. Ashley wrote about the drafts folder and mine is plumb full dating back to 2016. I plan on revamping some posts and letting them loose. Others will be trashed. Honestly, my blog(s) need an overhaul. I have changed so much from 2008 until now. My old selves certainly don’t recognize the new me. The me taking on life one day at a time.
Hope you will stay on this journey with me a little longer. Watch for all the changes to come. And know you are always welcome here. ✌🏼🕯🎶💙
Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.
The cliche that “nothing stays the same” happens every new season. Autumn is upon us now and we say goodbye to the childish ways of summer, as the groaning of winter approaches.
I grab my wrap as I head out the door to tend to my six sassy chickens. There are fewer clover plants to pick in the yard. So I bought fresh dandelion greens and watermelon at the grocer. This delicacy, beyond the grains, entices them to brave the morning chill. A chill they never knew in June, huddled beneath a red heat lamp. Where once all six chicks fit into the space of a three month old hen.
This new environment is a challenge for me too. Soon snow will blanket the dirt. Chicken feet are easily frost bitten so I must be cautious with how long they stay outdoors. To grab my scarf and trudge into the bleak day, instead of hunkering on the couch with a good book and fire, will challenge my devotion.
I choose the chickens during a March morning, my daughters texting me, as the two-week, 2020 lockdown, was fresh in mind. There was scarcely tp or eggs, flour, milk, and least of all bravery, on store shelves. We hunkered into fighting mode.
I had always dreamed of having a brood of chickens while my kids were young. Fishers Indiana laws and neighbors kept us from acting upon those noisy desires. Nothing in this town was blocking me from ordering those cuties from a hatchery. With a bit of research and a strong sense of the present world, I added six female Australorps to the online store bin.
This new wine drunk celebrates life seasons and I will keep up. My life stretching to fill new wineskins, to reach the warmth of others in community. These chickens hatched all possibility into me. The bourgeoning of the Little Free Library, my expressive arts training, and Shed 33.3. A renewed outlook sprouting from tilled soul.
At least until the final transformation of ghostly dancing sets eternally upon my bones. My spirit ever free from the confines of flesh. A new wineskin ever new, adorned with ebony feathers.
In moments of clarity I sing. In moments of despair I moan. In this moment I spy the green seeping from your eyes.
We step in the shallow pool where leaves gather in cooler days. The reds, yellows, and oranges ripen with the setting sun. Browns crunch under our shoes. Your fingers wrap around my wrist, clenching my pulse to see if I respond. I don’t. But I do.
I reach for the new growth you promised me years ago. I see it now. The tender green shoots sprout from your heart.