Driftwood

the mind-

although a wild and glorious place
the past not easily changed or erased
default settings find their way,
complex thoughts distracted- replaced
with petty thoughts, simple and traced:
anger, envy, judgment and hate.

grace and passion simply give way
mental continents colliding in place
wild dreams lost- lengths escaped
driftwood floating
beyond wavy seascapes.

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‘The Snowman’ in Autumn

One must have a mind of autumn
To regard trembling aspen memories
Of honey gold leaves quaking in the wind whisped path;

And have lived many times in between seasons
To behold the fleeting and ever passing illustrious fire colors,
The wilting land in the September sun

Or the shifting winds; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wavering breeze
In the sound of those last dangling memories

Which is the sound of the living
Full of reverence for the dying
That is blowing us through one season into the next

For the listener, who listens to the inevitable  October air,
And, beholds everything, beholds
Everything that is not there and everything that is.

________________________________
*originally posted in November 2014

The Last Wild

broken branches, pines and cones
pressed into the damp forest of my mind
the rugged way; breathing heavy and tangled

but oxygen can’t take us there

to those unknown pockets of humanity
the broken wild; contained and gone,
vigilante ideas paved over in social norms

desperately longing for something to explore

beyond the wisping prairie words
silver tipped beneath the columbine mind
through the rugged divide of mental continents

the soul work of living

thirsting through the desert narrows
sinking beneath the ocean’s depths and breaths
the storm, pounding against a broken sturdy heart

the last Wild- stays forever Wild…
                                                                    untamed and free

Invictus

BY WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

The Volcano

A wet bed. My small cabin. The middle of Costa Rica’s thick jungle. Rain leaks through the roof onto the end of my white comforter, leaving a stained red pool from the dark wood above. An active volcano smolders just below me, less than five kilometers away, but one simmers even closer.

I’ve just finished The Paris Wife about Ernest Hemingway’s first wife, Hadley. It has left me feeling lonely and depressed. The most beautiful love can simply dissolve into an ocean of our past, leaving only our memories as confusing reminders of what we once had, but lost.

What is it about love that changes so quickly? Just two hours ago I was laughing over a beautiful dinner in a fine restaurant, with the two people I love most in the world.  My daughter and my mother. Suddenly everything shifted. It took one simple question from her to shake our trip from paradise into anger and chaos.

“What do you believe about God, Mom?”

Warning bells go off in my head.  This question seems to simmer below the surface of her mind, but whenever she asks, it always erupts into a full on argument.  “You know what I believe baby girl. Nothing’s changed.”

Then it turns ugly as she begins slinging judgements and questions at me like volcanic rocks, the tone of her voice boiling over, making it perfectly clear she wants to challenge me.

Do you read the bible? Do you study? If I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t know you were a Christian. What’s the last spiritual book you read?”

You don’t know me is the first thought to cross my mind. All I can do is look at her with astonishment and think to myself, Really? You want to do this here? On our beautiful girls’ vacation? It all becomes too clear at this point that she once again wants to climb up on her father’s wobbly soapbox of organized and indoctrinated Christianity. I stood up from the table angry at my daughter. I was worried I would make a scene if I stayed.

She can’t stand the fact that I don’t like church. I believe in God and many aspects of the bible, but I just can’t bring myself to swallow every single word, and more than that, I don’t trust doctrine. Damnit if I haven’t tried! I tried so hard I almost lost my soul!

I wish she was willing to hear my story without considering it as an attack on her own faith, and instead as my own journey. But she is young. And I am too old to lie and tell her what she so desperately wants to hear. So we are destined to be friends and enemies until she realizes that life is not perfectly packaged.

It’s a heartbreaking thing as a mother to have a daughter who is so afraid to listen, who needs the world to fit together perfectly. I remember doing the same thing to my own mother. I was angry at her too when I was younger. Somehow my chaotic world was all her fault. She wasn’t able to protect me. Maybe that’s what my daughter blames me for now. I don’t know?

I was mad at her for being so rude and loud in the restaurant. Now she is mad because I couldn’t just stop being mad. We are too much alike. But I love her, always will, just as my mother has always loved me.

I love my daughter and I am glad she is strong, she will need it. Watching her grow up is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I just keep praying that my faith and love will at least loosely hold us together and keep her fear at a minimal simmer until the day she really wants to hear my story. I have to remind myself that today I am not what I should be or everything I could be, but because I am loved as I am, I will love her in return, just as she is.

For now I will pray that God can salvage this trip so we can enjoy the beautiful pieces of one another before returning home, and that he protects the potential of our relationship so it doesn’t melt away in frustration.

Tonight even though I’m angry and hurt, I must set that aside. Because love is more important.

South

constellations of sorrow
true northern stars
lifetimes of faith
in dark amber nights

glittering skylines
peripheral lights fall
through glimmers of smoke
upon charcoal skylines

eternal words breath
exhale those long sighs
heartbeat of worlds
a cadence of time

 follow your heart
regrets long gone
temporary reminders
mourning dawns

Creative Blogger Award

  
Several weeks ago I was surprised and delighted to discover my blog had received The Creative Blogger Award. The nomination came from Steve Prinz at According to Mr. Flying Pig. This is quite the honor because I enjoy his fresh and forthright poetry, which is keenly introspective and raw.  I’ve enjoyed my journey these past few weeks through his work, and hope you will take a moment to check out his blog.

This nomination couldn’t have come at a better time.  I’m embarrassed to admit, I have been neglecting my daily rendezvous with my pen. Somehow life has swept me up into the rapid currents of the springtime run off again. However, this award has encouraged me to come back to my first love.  With that said, I want to take the time to pass on the encouragement to some other amazing writers who have encouraged and inspired my thinking and writing.

The rules for this award are:

° Nominate 15-20 blogs and notify all nominees via their social media/blogs
° Thank and post the link of the blog that nominated you
° Share 5 facts about yourself to your readers
° Pass these rules on to them

MY NOMINEES (in no particular order)

No Talent For Certainty: Passing thoughts stopped in their tracks

MICHAEL T. COE: I write words on paper sing songs in the air and paint on the canvas of my soul.

Projectophile: A lover of projects, especially those derived from scavenged materials and made more beautiful through paint, thread and sandpaper….and a great sense of humor.

A Writer’s Path: Theryanlanz is essential to my blogging and writing experience. I was so lucky to happen upon his work at the very beginning of my blogging journey.  He offers inspirations points, prompts and quotes for writers, but my favorite posts are his Under The Microscope series where he provides a learning experience based on the critiques and compliments for the writer.

Exploratorius: Old School Photo Hack & Storm Walker.

loveletterstoaghost: Writing letters I can never send. I am Patience because that is all I have. I have waited 12 years for you, and I will wait a hundred more if that’s what it takes. This blog is my way of releasing myself.

Young & Twenty:  A twenty something writer working with creative minds to turn my words about love, life and self-discovery into pieces of art.

A Walk on the Bright Side: the musings of an eternal optimist. And I need as much optimism as I can get these days!

It’s Just A TheoryBorn at an early age, he sprang into existence a fully-grown adult, without tact or a governor on his tongue. He was never actually a child – instead he was found under a damp rock somewhere, and has been making up for lost time ever since.

5 FACTS ABOUT ME

1) I have project ADHD. I struggle to finish anything I start.
2) I just added a new addition to my family, a corgi puppy.  His name is Finn…yes, as in Huckleberry. He is pure puppy happiness and a terror.
3) I am a teacher. It’s the hardest job I’ve ever had, but I love it.
4) I drink wine everyday…I don’t care what my trainer says. It is part of my daily workout as well.
5) I love the wild, you will never tame me.

Tessellate 

coming round again
the same undefined place
where I tessellate
a thousand permanent pieces
they wish to scrape away my
pale flesh colored mosaic
upon careful examination of each
fragile piece and such
transparent glass colors
nothing new…I know
it’s difficult to find peace
in this pattern of round
and round and round again
see you back here
some years following