More Whimsy

I’ve been engaged in a poetry project for what seems like decades and I can’t seem to just get there, wherever there is. My effort here is to preserve my writing by making an electronic version and someday they come together in published from, a book, a collection, a podcast…

Forest Floor

I felt something tug, pull me upright, like a string from the heavens attaching to my crown and I stand. 
The three points of the classic crown, invisible to me, like a ghost guiding me through life. 
I walk to the forest's edge, softly stepping on nature's floor of cedar and dirt- leaves and life- left behind to bring comfort to the woods. This chipmunk's playground is full of soft earth, sticks teeter tatters, rocks slides, broken branches swings, until spotted when the sun outdoes the the shade. 
Oh how I want to join them on their tilt-a-whirl of life! 
High gold shine of the crown leads me on- thoughts come and go as do my steps landing softly...and the earth moves on as if I was never there. 

What We Have Here is a Failure to Communicate" 24 May 2022

On the deepest darkest level I have to believe that what makes us hate it the inability to move out of a deep, dark space your being, soul, has occupied. 

What we have here is a cultural crisis. One where violence and guns become the vehicle to carry out feelings so deep and dark they cannot be expressed any other way. 

A cultural crisis where we fail again and again and again to look at the fine balance between the individual and structure- one that sets us up for individual power or failure, but fails to acknowledge the power of the structure, every. single. time.

You can't legislate away hate; nor can you legislate to motivate, to tolerate, yet we manifest this reality that ends in the finality of death, the loss of life, potential of joy. Let it not be replaced with hopeless complacency until again arrives. 

Grass
each unique like a crystal chard merging to form a masterpiece. 
moving through life, like the dandelion whisp, the white of the poplar.
reminding us that life moves through time journeys change and yet we arrive to peace. 

Cold Spring
As I drive by the snow covered parcel of grass tight between two heavy barriers of concrete, between sidewalk and street, I recall underneath the mask of snow, while quiet and invisible, trusting life is still present. 
For in the summer, this tucked in space buzzes with energies of wild flowers and bees pollinating three feet of luscious greenery in a city scape only to be mowed week after week, but with resilience comes back in the week between even stronger.
So I do know. I do trust that life does exist under the white blanket of snow, over a sheet of ice which, like a comforter on the coldest winter nights provides warmth and solace, the irony of strength deep beyond what I can see without my x-ray vision.

I think about how, in the darkest of times, the depths of cold and quiet, the hum of life keeps moving- for without movement there is no hope. 

Keep.

Ms. PacMan

To take my power back- where did I leave it? How could I have left it somewhere without knowing I no longer had it? is it hiding under the shell of my happiness? Or did it fall out of my pocket without me even noticing? 
I speak for justice and peaceful inclination. i speak for the trees, among others, human, animal, for God's sake, fauna
But wait, have I ever spoken up for me? You've been told just do it; just get over it; come on, move on, put on the mask that's what's been hiding my power. I never knew it was gone because I never knew it was my choice to have it in the first place.