a flux of flowers
colored petals swoon
sweep the frosty mind.
Upon the meadow
birds flock to feast
ripened seeds to spread
the wisdom of passing time.
A few days back, these grape hyacinths were at their peak. As they stood attention, bees collected pollen while the days faded. All holding a promise, that tomorrow, faith rests on fate.
I believe in today. And see the grand scheme rise up before me. I put my hand to the soil and till the earth. Spread my pocketful of seeds with a smile. And water the dirt with tears knowing this too will pass.
grandma at the kitchen stove
stirring her pickles
hidden kittens purr
i feeding the baby calf
bowl full of cow’s milk
My Promise Garden arose from my grandfather’s suicide. The vision grows wherever I land. I have held this dream in my heart for 32 years. It only vanishes with my last breath.
(I have written about My Promise Garden, my brother, and my personal struggles before. They reside, buried in this ever evolving blog’s pages. Maybe those words will bud and blossom too. If I ever find the energy, I may edit my raw words into something more elegant. Until then, I rest in my meager efforts to get across how precious time is. Thank you friends.)
(A picture of me as Pippi Longstocking exists. Somewhere. or Perhaps it is lost forever, thus really nonexistent. The memory carries on.)
Im a little bit everything
and all over the place,
mail in my purse
that hasn’t been sent
a list of to-do’s
certainly not to be spent
a knot in my hair from ’72
when mother gave up on my hairdo!
So incredibly complicated
with every new day
I am grateful I have nothing much more to say.
So, look at my face
realize this once
I have feelings, gosh darn it
so play with me nice!
I am asking 2020 be my year
to learn and love
dance and play as my heart needs
the score complete
as Mr Gull flies by
and in his pursuit
he finds I suit his curiosity.
So, off I go, to dream,
what my imagination, Mr Gull and I can scheme!
Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.
gathering lost years
among the boughs of sorrow
unequal in space
Please read to the end, even if you are not in the mood to be cheery!!!! I truly care for you…
🌟 Possibilities exist in every shiny thought.
Never allow yourself to be squared in to a corner without a circle. Be adVenturous! Find a star and start running.
Even if it takes a lifetime to catch your star, realize you will have lived a full life chasing it.
Don’t pay attention to your neighbor’s faults. Work on your own. Once you realize no one is perfect, you will find inner peace exists.
Turn the other cheek. Forgive. Love. Move on. If your enemies follow you, hooray. And if they disappear, too bad they missed out living life along with you. Hopefully, and i sincerely mean this, i pray everyone can discover and name their own star to chase.
Just never stop chasing your star once you find and name it! 🌟 J
(I do not write this lightly. I have been depressed and suicidal. It has taken 50 years to reach my pinnacle. I have swam through snake infested waters, mosquito-riddled forests and felt unloved by the very people who should have helped me in life. I get the pessimist. I was one. Life seems to be turning for the good and i rejoice that i endured and can speak hope today. If you turn from this post because your hurting, reach out. There are people who care! I pray you find your star!)
Stopping by -hello dear friend
the whipping wind flies
dropping petals from the sky
planting beauty at our feet
such marvelous days to celebrate.
boots trample the snow
hexagonal brilliant flakes
lightly grace the sky
Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.
I read this article…
Here is my heart reaction, in words.
This is equally tragic as 9/11. The voices of those dead in Chicago cry out for us to take action. How do we react? We dissect each tragedy and look for blame. Is there blame? On who or what? Scholars divide the problem into money, race and gender. But i say the problem is time, compassion and heart. We are too busy to listen to the kids in first grade who open up and tell about their life.
Once trust is earned, the problems surface. These children are calling out for help.
The little child tells me he will never make his momma sad and be like his older brother. He wants to read and learn. But then he enters sixth grade and they bully him into submission. Take his backpack and books and call him shame. “Shame on you for listening to whitey! They hate you. Dont you remember?” Those words echo in his head and dig into his heart. I scream in a whisper. “I care. I am white. So what? Can you not see my heart. It beats for every death you celebrate. Every life you snuff out.”
To the kids i knew at School on Wheels. I hope someday we hug in heaven. ❤️❤️❤️ Or even better we run into each other some where in this world!
A new experience presented itself within a community to celebrate positive energy. This was most of the group’s first time being together. The hour started with rhythmic drum beats mimicking the heart’s life force.
There were 15 of us, each with a drum and another percussion instrument. This video is the third of four sets, each naturally lasting between 12-13 minutes. The group leaders did little to manipulate each interval of creative expression. They flowed as swiftly and gently, or vigorously and bountifully, as the Nashua River, deep in the Valley of Oxbow.
As the hour progressed, a golden hue encompassed us. We said farewell to the sun. Then to each other. Look forward to another drum circle September 12.