Posted in Photography, Poetry

FOTD—Bluets

Cee’s FOTD Photo Challenge

Bluet

What delight Spring brings on the heels of a never-ending bleakness buried in snow.

Before the grass grows tall, the shoots of violets, bluets, and trout lily dance atop the forest floor. Before the grand tree canopies, the floral bouquet is gathered to adore.

After we succumb to woodland fragrance, the bumble and honey bee dance to wax and wane their appetite. After the world awakes, we rest in slumber for time’s sake.

To remember the wildflower dotting the woodlands come September will prove beauty’s allure!

Posted in Photography, Poetry, prose

Worried (Thoughts Unleashed)

Borderline Crossing

My mind worries about everything. For instance, I contemplated if I should allow comments or turn them off on my blog. I don’t get many, so that is not the problem. The problem is coming across the right way in my answers. Please don’t get me wrong whatever I decide. I will only worry more.

Cinco de Mayo 2020

Then, I worry about food. My mother was very overweight and I was deathly afraid of ever having to be seen. So I refused food until I became a mother. Then I ate as if I never tasted spaghetti or tuna or chocolate chip cookies before. And I still have a propensity to over eat. I love the taste of food and I am a pretty damn good cook. Just wish I never had seen a plate, fork and knife. I am doomed.

Cape Cod Passions

And the last thing on my mind this morning is a dear friend who sent a note. Should I write back or wait a while? I once confessed a growing love while guilt tripped me up. The feelings were built over tides and shifting sand. I never intended to devour the sour or sweet. Meanwhile, insecurities continue to flourish under the bridge to cause more angst. Oh! to speak out loud, these morning thoughts, chases the sun away. I should go play under the clouds and worry alone.

Posted in Art, Poetry, Soul Journal

Woodland Echoes

Printmakers paper, acrylics, ephemera, found leaves, coffee stains, and a piece of my poetry. With painted pages ready to add additional words, feathers, pressed flowers or leaves, and whatever else a heart desires.

Found in the Lost Pile of Civility (Jan 2019)

Seems to me
as we slowly decline
we beat around the bush
contemplate how to survive.

Generations realize this drift
on a sail-less boat
the cloth wrapped around our bleeding hearts
words confessed on bended knees
misses the sliver in private eyes.

Same old, same old story.
The beginning is the end.
The terror in other's minds
now belongs to us.
Realize hungry is,
as was,
and nothing eaten satisfies.

Measure our words against ourselves
need I stand upon a soapbox
add my rhetoric to humanity's misery?

As ash buries the smoldering coals
are we aware we are wandering
found among the lost pile of civility?
Posted in Photography, Poetry, prose

Just Dance

Dance first. Think later.
It’s the natural order. —Samuel Beckett

What am I doing here? Does anybody really know? I suppose some of us do. The smart and put together ones.

I sit up nights worrying who I am. Resign myself to think I may never know. Knowing one day I am sunny and the next day I send shivers up the coolest cat in town.

Life was going swimmingly. I had plans. I felt my square edges had been rounded to fit in society’s cylinder vision. Then, you know, a virus spread like a bad case of halitosis. Why didn’t someone tell that person to keep their mouth shut? Yeah! I wouldn’t have the nerve to tell someone either.

Then I have another problem. The world is divided along political lines. And religion. And between truth, morality, and friendship. I’m somewhere in the gray area of exhaustion.

I realize I am as much to blame. So I sit and wonder. Will I have courage to change my life to compensate for these wavy thoughts.

No. Im not suicidal. Not this time.

Still, I need a break from this break. Sit awhile and sing me a song?

Posted in Photography, Poetry

Must I (Always)

Words are the clothes thoughts wear. —Samuel Beckett
Goodness knows I am worn out
from ideas and thoughts
cleansed papers hung

clothesline heavy with fresh air
sheets of perfection pressed
I wonder how to let go?

I am not the same girl
yesterday was left hanging
I brought scissors today

trimmed his hair
shorter than shoulder length
as time weighs heavy.

Sorry is painted clear
with fog surrounding our faces
and fingernails dug in earth

you reach for my dress hem
frayed from rolling down hills
and I wonder what tomorrow brings?

Mother may I
echoes through branches
as birds escape our dreams.