O’ these remarkable hands
strong arms that embrace
the day has now marched forth
the belly grumbles its demands
of soup.
I weave the ingredients
chopped carrots, celery and onion
sized just right
not too big and chunky
but a delightful bite
spoonful upon spoonful.
Of Soup, Weaver and Stone
The hearth I place upon the kettle,
the pot and ladle.
You turn on with little effort
a forceful gas
a pop ignites a flame.
I marvel the alchemy
of what was many parts
too big to consume
marinates and softens.
The scent permeates to each room’s walls
a heartiness
a potential promise
of a full belly
with gobs of soft fresh bread
baked by unknown hands
now in mine I consume.
A Cycle
Snaggled undertoe, seaweed clings to
my legs afraid to be adrift back to sea
a tumultuous ride
turned over and over
a cycle that pauses for no one.
Come Celebrate with me
Come celebrate with me
as we walk down the path
to the meadow, to the sea,
to the sidewalk and asphalt
cracked, lush or barren.
There is beauty underfoot.
Step by step
one leads to one
surefooted or deeply rooted.
Come celebrate with me:
air in our lungs
a sound on the tip of our tongue
a warm smile
a steady hand of support
a sure-foot beat.
Together we stroll
down the well-grooved path.
The Wisdom of Trees (Part 2)
The trees are my elders.
Their cyclical change tangible proof
that it’s okay to grow, shine, be
our true selves and let go.
It’s always been the natural order of things
And now they have shared their gilded wisdom.
It may look like trees are stuck
and don’t see so much.
I’ve learned it’s in the pause
that we receive all the gifts
this life has to offer.
[ Listen to this poem read by my friend Jess on her podcast The Pawtuxet General: https://www.pawtuxetgeneral.com/1885927/14088823-the-pawtuxet-general-episode-95 ]
The Wisdom of Trees (part 1)
Red, banana-shaped leaves all beneath a tree, like a bright blanket, winter sparkly lights gleam on its branches. I look up and stare into its outstretched arms trying to learn its secrets. Tell me, how do you so lovingly let go once your true colors have emerged? Show me that it is okay to be naked and surrounded by beauty at the same time. Vulnerable but not lost. Rooted and grounded in that strong inner knowing. Whisper your secret in my ear. Lend me your wisdom. My eager beating heart awaits your reply.
What illuminates a star?
How does that light travel across the Milkyway, the sky, and greets me where I stand? The sunflower stands upright. Its round dark face and bright petals meet me eye to eye. Like a sundial it twists back and forth, side to side always facing the bold sun. I too can feel its rays on my face A sunkissed touch warms my skin. I do not know how that tall, bold flower grows from one little seed Whose loving hands scooped up the dirt to plant this one little hard black seed. Tell me, what seeds are you going to plant today?
Day of the Dead
Candy wrappers strewn here and there the only remnants that someone was there. Ghouls, ghosts and zombies all laid to rest the pumpkins and decorations, and all the rest The dark days descend on us the Day of the Dead bestow upon us. A peaceful hush is now abound. A bounty of gratitude is all around.
Summer past
The last warm weather of summer has passed. It’s in the rearview mirror and it’s slowly disappearing behind the horizon as we march toward November. Ever longer nights, the colors once so bright will soon fade too. It’s a natural thing and a reminder that all is well. Even if I have to let go or hold on til the bitter end. The natural order says so and I am just a lucky-enough player on the field to notice. I grow. I shine. I let go. And I can pick up the broken pieces if I want to. Gather what I need. Or just surrender, relax, be quiet like the snow blanketing the earth. It’s a natural thing. And I am a part of nature. And so it is.
Birdsong
Even when it’s all been sung the birds sing their song They greet the day with a song in their heart. Even with the great sorrow, The grief, the rumination The birds sing their song. There is hope and courage in their tune, if I just stop I can feel it. Not an urgency, but a faith a promise that this day brings. So sing their song they must and they faithfully do. I count on their song even when it’s all been sung.
When all the Jens turn 50
Generation X Generation post-punk And bands with big hair and even longer ballads. Roller skates and Hot summer nights with no A/C. Curling irons, crimping irons and Aquanet. Beetlejuice, Heathers, Freaks and Geeks, Kevin Smith movies and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Nightmare Before Christmas and Grunge. The Cure on stage Robert Smith holding my hands; Such gratitude and connection to his fans. When all the Jens turn 50, Does that mean we now run the show? We make our own rules. We speak our minds. We still wear T-shirts from our favorite bands Some of the lucky ones still touring. When all the Jens turn 50, We will have gained so much wisdom and insight No longer timid and shy Filled with such doubt and lacking self-assurance Will we ever fit in? When all the Jens turn 50, Generation X has turned the tide. The sun and moon know our true age As we dance around the musician’s stage. From one Jen to another, who has not yet turned 50 In loving memory to my first real friend, Jennifer Lopes (Brink) , who would have turned 50 this year.
Healing Insights 