I am not afraid of being alone.
I am not afraid of feeling lonely.
The feeling isn’t fear, or worry.
It’s the feeling I might get too
comfortable with solitude, with
the quiet and order of it all.
I am not afraid of being alone.
I’m not afraid of feeling lonely.
It feels like spring breaking free
from the shackles and barren
branches of winter trees.
I am ready for the wild beauty
I am ready for the riot of bird song.
It feels like I am ready for another
adventure with a new soundtrack
of sounds I was too busy to hear.
I am wondering at the small things.
I am in awe of the little noticed.
It feels like finding a song I had
forgotten but the words were
always in my mouth waiting.
I am not afraid of being alone.
I am not afraid of being lonely.
I am looking forward to meeting
the woman I am becoming
in this new season of me.
Not lonely
April 24, 2024 at 3:47 pm (Uncategorized)
Breaking a heart
October 6, 2023 at 2:16 pm (Uncategorized)
Breaking a heart can be done in two ways.
A swift, betraying blow can break it fast.
A sudden stop to precious things like love,
trust, hope and it is a broken heart.
Breaking a heart can be less dramatic.
A slow, careless cutting can break it slow.
An accumulation of loss, becoming invisible
no trust or hope, and it is a broken heart.
Breaking a heart. A task for the careless, the
thoughtless, the cruel or just unaware.
Healing a heart. That takes courage, care,
love and patience. It takes strength and love.
Any fool can break something,
the truly beautiful person can
help something heal and love again.
Any fool can lose slight of a good thing.
Any fool can break a heart, fast or slow.
Be gentle with a healing heart, be kind to
one that knows how to be broken and
still tries to keep loving and trusting.
Be kind with a scarred heart, be sweet to
one that knows too much of bitterness
and still shows up to the beauty of life.
What I miss most
September 27, 2023 at 9:33 pm (Poetry)
Tags: acceptance, grief, healing, loss, love, mental health
Grief stalks my memories, my dreams.
When I find a tender place of remembrance
it wanders in with a dark shadow of pain
that pinches my nose, fills my eyes with tears.
Grief makes it’s self at home in my wishes.
How can I warm my self in nostalgia with
it’s cold touch running down my spine?
Reminding me I’m not just grieving what was.
Grief pulls threads and tugs on scars.
Bringing memories of what was, coloring
them with the longing of what never
can be. Could never be? Only imagined.
Grief whispers, “What do you miss most?”
And teases me with fragments of memories.
Touches my hurt with a realization.
I miss being their someone. I miss the stories
we only knew, the memories we shared.
I miss being their someone. I miss them.
I miss being her daughter. Her granddaughter.
His best friend. Her friend. Their someone.
I miss that we won’t get to share again.
I miss the memories we didn’t make.
I miss the stories we didn’t get to tell.
I miss the laughter and the tears shared.
Grief doesn’t care if they are gone from
us by death, boundaries, choice or chance.
Grief just is, and it won’t stop until we do.
Learning to lean into grief, to learn from it and accept the process is so very hard. It’s not linear, it doesn’t make sense or even have a path to follow. We can only respect the process, and try to not let it drown out everything else that we still love, still care for and that still loves and cares for us.
Fragile, maybe
September 27, 2023 at 3:56 pm (Uncategorized)
She said, “She’s fragile. Not like a flower,
but like a bomb.”
I started thinking about roses and thorns.
Fuses and fuel loads, detonations.
I wondered about burning bridges,
and growing gardens in stony ruins.
I dreamed of moonlight through a
cracked window pane, shining on.
I gently touched a long healed scar,
remembering the wounding.
What is fragile? What is strong?
What needs new growth?
What is lovely? What is incandescent?
What needs new shapes?
Flowers and bombs, both suitable
for their purpose and design.
Flowers and bombs, both fragile
and yet strong, capable of more.
The quote for the poem is traditionally credited to Frida Kahlo.
Scent of memories
November 21, 2022 at 3:07 pm (Uncategorized)
Tags: memories, poet, poetry, remember, scents
It’s a hint, a wisp of a memory.
The forgotten bite of someone’s
cigarette smoke, or a sweet tang
of pipe tobacco and coffee.
The smell of powder from a
glass dish shaped like a dog.
Special day perfume lingering
on a scarf or sleeve like mist.
Stale smells of old ashtrays,
a lip of Cope or pull of chew.
Was it Juicy Fruit or Kool-Aid
that summer smelled like?
Kitchen smells can tease out
a whole decade of memories.
Car smells can put on miles
recalling maps and road signs.
When I try to recall though
they fade quickly, no hints.
Just a thought of what it
might have smelled like then.
They cross over too, the memories.
Vanilla – candles, air fresheners
or perfume? They me tangle up and
start me on paths worn and forgotten.
They are ambush predators every one.
Sneaking up with feelings and images,
non-tangible senses of things gone.
A tear or a laugh, scars ache and burn.
The scent of a memory lives as an
anchor and a trigger, a way to pull you
back in and awaken some forgotten
place in your heart, to live again.
Some last a fleeting moment, others
linger and bring with them a cascade
of other memories from scent, sound,
taste, touch – a blast from the past.
You can’t hold them, or keep them.
They are butterfly and wasp both,
Brush of something special and
a sting of something with no words.
Not yet winter, not yet.
November 7, 2022 at 11:20 pm (Farming Agriculture, Poetry)
Tags: birds, canola, deer, dogs, Poetry, Poets, spring, winter
No. No snow shots. No winter photos. Not yet.
I’m firmly in denial about this heavy shot of
winter snow, wind, and approaching bitter cold.
I want to imagine summer days,
deer in canola fields, blooming waves
of purple flax and the sounds of birds and insects.
I want to feel the sun warm on my face,
not snow in my hair and frozen lashes.
But the dog – oh the dog.
She loves this! Snow! Running and leaping.
Not too hot, just right for rolling fun.
She is a fall baby, grown into love
with the winter blanket of snow.
She bites the snow, digs into drifts.
Cuddles on the couch, cleaned by winter.
We balance it – the moisture so desperately
comes as snow, the promise of spring seems
darkly far distant as we hunker down to
snow, cold and short days easing to
darkness of winter but still…we wait.
Waiting gives us time to dream, to rest.
The busy weight of fall eases off.
We know it’s time to plan, plot and
to look inwards as the winter comes.
I won’t stop dreaming of spring.
I won’t hate the winter either.
I’ll lean forward and embrace
the special moments of quiet,
that only a cold snowy night
can bring in a busy loud world.
poetry #winter
Sometimes
August 28, 2022 at 9:20 pm (Poetry)
Tags: micropoetry, Poetry
Sometimes I take off my glasses
and let the world soften,
out of focus and into gentle colors.
I close my eyes and let the
sun and shadow take turns
warming and cooling my face.
I let the shades bleed without edges
or definition until it becomes one.
#micropoetry #poetry
Taking up space
June 28, 2022 at 7:53 pm (Poetry)
Tags: creative, lgbtqai2s+, neurodivergent, poetry, space, wildness, women
Clean sheets and sprawling across
A queen sized bed – taking up space.
In the morning I find I’m on my side
not using more than my space.
Conversations rolling along, fluid.
Me speaking my words – taking up space.
Later I wonder if I was too ________
using more space than I should.
I used to be bold, bright and wild.
I didn’t try to blend – I look up space.
Now I’m reclaiming her, that version
using the space I want, that I need.
Not unkindly but with passion
I won’t be less than – I take up space.
My voice, my art, my words – see them?
using space that has sat still and blank.
The between spaces where wounds bled
The lies that shrunk my vision of space.
Scar tissue that bound my muse
keeping her from dancing, painting, singing.
Leaning forward, into the idea of space.
Accepting that we always take up too much
for those who wish we didn’t take any
because they wish to control it all.
I won’t back away now, verging on an age
where saying no is akin to wisdom when
it is said with wrinkled brow and crooked finger
I don’t shout, I whisper – take up the space.
Fill it with color, laughter, tears, hopes and dreams.
Fill it with dancing, fire, ice cream and cake.
Take up the space, without apology, take it
use it wildly, loudly and with passion.
Let them howl, whisper and whine.
Let them defend their idea of your space.
Bump them gently, and keep moving
and never stop taking up space.
I often heard, growing up, that ‘we’ need to understand our place, not to take up too much space. It didn’t matter who you were, if you didn’t fit in just right you were too ________ (something) and expected to be less for their comfort. No more! Take up space. Breathe life into it, passion and fill it with everything bold, bright, dark and awesome.
Missing you
June 1, 2022 at 1:23 pm (Poetry)
Tags: grief, healing, mental health, micropoetry, Poetry
Through the Window
May 19, 2021 at 7:49 pm (Uncategorized)
Through my window I see the sunset in spring.
From my comfy chair I watch the traffic going by.
The busy flights of birds through a tangle of branches.
I feel the world moving all around me.
Some parts fast on their way to who knows where.
Others in their pace set by nature and instinct.
Through my window I wait for the late spring leaves.
From my comfy chair I watch the lights flash by.
The busy noise of trucks and cars on the highway hum.
I feel myself in the moving of the world around me.
Some parts of me willing (and able) to go with the flow.
Others resisting, instinct and nature wanting stillness.
Through my window the world goes by and sometimes
I don’t see or hear a thing as I sit in tears in my comfy chair.
The busy noise of coming and going passes me by.
I feel myself pulling back to hear birdsong and wind.
Some parts of me wanting to move on, others to stay.
Others wanting a space between to rest, and breathe.
Through my window I see sun shine and storms rolling.
From my comfy chair sunny days and starry nights.
The quiet of a curtain of rain makes the world smaller.
I feel a tiredness lifting, sheltered from the noise around.
Some parts growing and some healing, still some being.
Others being still in the moment, power in being.
We are human beings, not human doings. We are able to do so much and yet we seem reluctant to do the one thing that might best of all for us – to just be. To rest. To be still. To treasure something small. To let a wound heal. To rest in faith.
Sunflower Poetry 