Three days. Three motivations. Day 2.

A Guy called Bloke nominated me to share my motivations and I happily oblige, feeling motivated to share my inner thoughts. Why not? 😜💕✌🏼

Glad you bother to read my posts at all! What, with all your responsibilities, who am i to take up your time?

This is the path unfolding before me. A red carpet spread to the ends of the earth, piled high with rocks and sand and twigs and leaves. Accompanied by the fragrance of flowers and promise of new Days. While Nights wander aimlessly toward silence and i reside peacefully as billions of stars awaken.

Oh! This too! Or better yet, make some of your own art! Grab a brush, paint, and go! 🎨 ☔️🌵🌼🍄🍁🍂🐾 J🕊🎶🎶🎶

My Feathered Heart

Jeanne’s GoodReads Review Please feel free to add me to your Goodreads’s friend’s list. 😁🕊🎶

My Feathered Heart (original poem)

My review of The Feathered Heart by Mark Turcotte.

I once found a teeny-tiny downy woodpecker feather. At most, the feather measured one inch (2.54 cm) in length. My guess as to the year found would be 2010. I had since lost the treasure to find it again while packing up our house to move. Today’s date 3/11/2018.

The feather, seen above in the bookmark constructed, is grey/black with five incomplete white spots. The spots are not complete circles as the white color lies on the fringe. As such, it mimics my teetering heart, lying on the edge of an invisible border erected by thoughts. It is my feathered heart that led me to find Mark Turcotte and his book of poems, The Feathered Heart.His book will be returned to as often as needed. To remedy my soul with feeling words erected as fences. (I found a used copy, to be delivered just in time for my birthday, through Amazon 😁.)

My wayward feet travel searching for answers. The silences weave protection. The war i battle is not within but from outside the curtained window. I learn to dress in velvet’s hope.

Waking Up

I believe inside each of us resides a broken heart that never received the love needed. Our job is to heal those wounds, as revealed, and to search for those yet uncovered.

It came to me -a dream
And so my friend,
he has a name -Goy Peppo.

My constant companion on this writing adventure, Goy “Penguin” Peppo. He hardly believes I have shoved out all these words, nonstop, since 2008. Its akin to puking… i slowly loose the burden, strung around my neck, threatening to hang me.

Certainly there are people who would loved to have seen me dead. Growing up, there were kids in school who harbored ill desires toward me. At home, my sisters regulated me to a corner of the room, size of a cardboard box, and threw my clothes on top. I was invisible to my parents who walked right past and never noticed the tears.

Nights. I remember being in the dark, listening to the laughter coming from the living room. My parents and sisters would make pizza and popcorn and watch tv. It didn’t matter. I held my breath, covered my face with a pillow, in hopes the world would disappear. I would wake to silence, thinking I was dead. Imagine the disappointment when my wishes had not come true.

So, Goy searches for Words of Wisdom, in hopes, with time, I can be as loved as him.

Wharton “It was easy enough to despise the world, but decidedly difficult to find any other habitable region.”

Woolf “I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.”

“I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!”

Alcott “I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copybooks; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end.” (Jo March)

Frost “Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”

Plath “Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.

If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.

I feel my words are changing as I am healing. Becoming one heart. Whole. I hope I am growing as a writer, expressing the deep caverns, still not lit well enough to explore.

Writing is a discipline as any other creative endeavor. What we give of ourselves, to both the process and the outcome, is what eventually is criticized. What remains unsaid, at the end of the day, will wait for tomorrow.