Driving into the Storm

Last night reluctantly leaving our cottage in the woods to go home, a lightning storm was flashing up ahead. It struck me that I was driving into the storm. This thought-filled poem ensured. What shift is your storm? Are you driving headlong into it?
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Driving into the Storm

Driving into the storm
Isn’t the lightening beautiful?
Aren’t the gray, stacked clouds exciting?
Drive out of the dull, hot day
into the rush of rain and blowing darkness.
Sleep now and have your strawberry pie
for we are going for a ride,
a swirling storm
Where you will be electric
Where you will be fast and fabulous
bringing rain and energy to your crops.

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Sleep Child Sleep

My sleep anxiety has returned to my life. It is completely psychosomatic, lifestyle induced but real all the same. This poem is me in a sleep deprived state musing about lack of sleep. I choose this photo of Mini my sister’s cat because of the look in her eyes, her feral, unreasonable paranoia, and her story. My sister found Mini as a wild kitten chewing on cat carcass in the road. This is not to say I am feral but certainly one is less fun and less resilient without proper sleep. Treasure sleep my dears.

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Sleep Child Sleep

A little island
where I keep my crazy
and generally ignore it
until
sleep trouble comes
and the cannibals get restless
chewing on your leg and mine
nibbles then chomps
The drums are thumping
The bonfire roars
Crash, boom, bang.

Rock-a-bye baby
in the tree tops
where the sun is glaring
Break the bow,
cast off vines
and tumble down
down
down
to the shady woods
a bed of moss
so soft and buggy
Sleep child sleep
sail away
off the island
to your happy place
your happy place
tomorrow will tend itself
and worries are only ghosts
the present is guaranteed
Sleep child sleep.

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Perfectly Imperfect

This poem is me processing my the legnth of my self-imposed to-do list by embracing imperfection and the art of the slow motion chore. Many of us have this struggle. Busy is a gift of sorts. Seeing that gift takes some unlearning however. I am still unlearning.
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Perfectly Imperfect

I am working on imperfection
Expectations of myself
and perceived judgements of others
which may be projections of my perfection
or insecurities.
The achiever (why?)
My quality and volume measures
No task left undone or even half done.

There is time for everything
that is important
The crux
is to whittle down
to what is truly important
Be choosey.

Be okay with fewer projects,
the bucket list backs up.
Smaller garden,
only herbs and lettuce
maybe no garden.
Fewer friends,
but so many good friends.
Dirty dishes in the sink
and laundry waiting,
it is hard to relax,
to sleep with the undone.
Be okay with mistakes
oh tackling perfection (or is it fear) again.

I am whittling
I am whittling
It is not easy
but I am whittling.
Imperfection is achievable
especially for an achiever
Right?

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In Defense of Weeds

This poem is disjointed because I started it in 2013 in my small yard garden and finished it yesterday, 2019, looking at an acre yard we used to mow that is now beautiful prairie lawn. The poem is rambling and imperfect like a weed. While the poem encourages us all to put aside long judgements to take a new look, it also encourages us to stop mowing, stop using chemicals, and invite in wildlife and keep out noxious weeds. The last line showed up after I thought the poem was done. It could spark a whole new poem. Enjoy!
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In defense of weeds

Mother Nature’s garden
a meadow medley.
Who am I to judge her plantings?
Weeds are green
and green is green, native and tough.
No need to plant, water, or weed the weeds.
After all, a weed by any other name
might be a rose
for a rose is related to the thistle.

To love a weed,
see its beauty
no matter its name or reputation.

There is sculptural Needle grass
a starburst mid-century modern,
it’s heavy spike-like seeds
bounce in the breeze
and provide contrast to
the rubenesque Peonies
who volunteered beneath the chicken-legged Rhodies.
making my garden more interesting.

There’s the delight of Dandelions,
bees first spring food,
transforming from happy buttery faces
into ethereal, almost transparent, delicate puff balls.

There are pretty weeds that flower,
good weeds that keep the noxious at bay,
medicinal weeds like the yellow pedaled St. John’s Wort
to keep moods on track,
purple-coned Echinacea to boost our immunity,
and the comfort of chamomile tea
in mini daisy-like form.

For the hands-free gardener
who grows volunteers best
Mother Nature provides prairie lawns,
weed patches to feed the grasshoppers, butterflies,
and hide the new fawns.
Mother Nature’s plantings
spared the mower
to the delight of glorious weeds
and aren’t we all weeds?

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Singing Bowls

We are lucky to have a certified Vibrational Sound therapist way up here in the northwoods. I went to Flora Jerde’s Singing Bowls class last night. Since I started back working fulltime, I have been holding tension in my body. It seems to become a habit to hold tension. The vibrations in Flora’s class released all that tension. Now I am determined not to let it come back. Try sound therapy sometime even if it is just running your finger around the rim of a wine glass or hanging a wind-chime.

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Singing Bowls

Singing bowls
Waves of vibrations
washing over
and through
my body
Pushing out tension
Worries of money
Worries of time
Worries of lost dreams.

I am
in the moment
Immersed in pulsing tones
Tones
Tones
Waves of tones.
My hand twitches
as angst leaves,
disperses.
My face relaxes,
head sinks into my pillow,
hips open,
breath slows,
mind brings up
and releases.

Low tones
Raising
To higher tones
I imagine
A wind-chime
the wind
drifting over me
I am free
I am sound
I am wind
I am happy vibrations.

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How I Long for the Long Fat Moon

The older I get the less my body tolerates heat and cold. Cold is no problem because you can pile on cozy sweaters and snuggle down in fuzzy blankies. But, hot is hard to avoid. This poem popped out of me when looking at the moon missing cool days and shorter nights when the light doesn’t wake you up at 5 am. No complaints in the end because summer has its charms and freedoms. Enjoy the musings.

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How I Long for the Long Fat Moon

Skinny moon
with my skinny latte
on a skinny night of summer.
I long for the long fat moon
fun and round-faced
laughing
licking ice cream
cold and smooth
sweaters and cuddles
scarves and good books.

The skinny nights
have crickets and
belching bull frogs
but the long nights
are crisp and silent
with long sleeps
in flannel sheets.
How I long for the long fat moon.

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Universal Plan

A few weeks ago, I had the gift of thinking about my mortality. The doctor found a lump in my breast.  A sonogram didn’t rule out cancer so biopsies were scheduled. In the days waiting for results, I let myself wonder what if my plans for a long, healthy life didn’t come true. Luckily, all is well, no cancer. But, it was valuable to me to give up the assumption of a long life and to think about how my life, not matter the length, might contribute to good. Ponder the poem.
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Universal Plan

Where I get the news
does not change the news
so I will be at work
putting good into the world
for as long as I can put good
into the world
and if my trajectory on this plane
veers off sooner than my plan
then I will come into line
with the universal plan
and leave behind poems
and leave behind love
that will continue beyond me
to put good into the world.

 

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