Im tired of the blather
long to be whisked forth
where nature knows what is best.
this jagged heart line
avoid the cracks midst the stones
criss cross hope to die
Hips shifting. I hang a sign
“My soul is not for sale.”
around my neck.
People approach his upholstered chair
it remains vacant
in the consignment store.
I seat my language
upon the landscape vapor
a desert, embellished with torrid tears
helpless hearts, we are.
These frozen moments tucked indoors
you read me as tea leaves
floating swiftly towards the forest floor.
Embellished with a beady smile
you pour favor from a thousand rainbows
upon this ocean corridor.
trek shore of eternal soul
don the evening’s shawl
Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul. John Muir
People. We are complicated and simple. We are shy and rowdy. We are there in the city and here in the country. We are seen and invisible. We exist and then die.
We are, in the quiet pause, an eruption. And will always be the star.
Maybe im wrong. Maybe my belief you could surface, that you could soar above the fray…
Perhaps a jaded person is only in need of time? To resurface, resurrect, reconvene, replenish…
What did your water dream infuse you with? Healing. Quiet. Fear. Dismay.
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 2018 article 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
slip into insanity
forever vanished from blue sky
broken branches of a dying tree
the crunch of littered leaves under foot
notice the still orange flower
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 heart is the door to your soul.
What doors do you require to walk through, to understand yourself? Your neighbor’s door? Your back door? A stranger’s door?
Jesus said, ‘I am the door’ (John 10:7) in order to make it clear that no one can come to the Father except through Him.
of and for
I am ill.
My heart is broken
in need of deep repair
and I wept at the sign
hung around my neck
that read “tired soul”.
Worcester MA has many beautiful church buildings. These church doors were closed so no inside photos. So why do churches lock their doors? Why do we feel it is okay to criticize these doors being locked versus locking our home’s doors? And to be fair, they posted a sign to try the doors on a side street. So when did I stop knocking?
Wesley United Methodist Church
Thanks to Norm 2.0 Thursday Doors for hosting all the doors weekly.
a path of voices
retrieve the warm clues scattered
your time approaches
I have never stayed with one theme on my blog for very long. This is my third consecutive week to post a “Week in Review: B&W”. Progress? Calm in my chaos? If nothing else, a personal record! 🙂
A week in review. A visit to Tower Hills Botanical Garden in West Boylston MA is always a treat. Especially when a greenhouse orchid show helps me resist a chilly Sunday afternoon.
The stack of books pictured are half of what I will be reading during Expressive Arts training. Natalie Rogers, daughter of Carl Rogers, is a big proponent of various art modalities as healer. I plan to spend my remaining time helping others find their voice in paint, dance, words and song.
It feels good to have a purpose. I find we all need to heal generational trauma. Whether abused or the abusers, we must stand still and look towards the sun. A new day dawns. Hope rises.
And ten years blogging? Wow! And it has been 12 years since my brother left earth. This blogging journey will go on until I too am released from gravity. 🕊
Looking ahead. I feel myself changing. It has certainly been a while since I have revamped my image. “Borderline Crossing” will reemerge as something new in the future. Even I will be surprised as to what becomes of this journey.