or not enough
Buried in the Noise
but nothing can be as i want it to be. Oh well?
Not sure i am painting the truth
or if i am,
i don’t understand the sights
and truly lost is where i can be found.
February 2018 Buried in the Noise was a chapbook I had intended to publish before my mind changed. I never found the fortitude to proceed with the project. Today, I look at my poetry website and cringe, growl, weep, and wish i could organize my thoughts. They are scattered seeds that occasionally sprout.
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.
Every day starts with a new thought. Today was no different.
The past few days I have woken to water views of The Atlantic. Her blue waves are far worse than mine. The first day we met, I settled into the sun breaking free from her horizon. The warmth cut the chill enough to sit on the deck chair and zen the morning away.
I suppose this morning is a warning that the carefree moments never last longer than a brisk wind’s cold slap to the face. She woke up wild. I woke, arms wrapped around a blanket, hot mug in hand, giving thanks for her hospitality the past week. And for a relationship that has just begun.