HeartStrung

Colored lights strung up; the scent of pine indoors. It must be Christmas

worry, worrying  doesn’t do a thing for me except for grey hairs

  too full of feelings  rising, growing, spilling over.  learning to let go.

I shared my fear with a milkweed seed I know not where the wind will lead,  but  I release my grip and set fear free

i love you                      because it is natural   to love           those you know                     so completely

the wind               she speaks to me                                        she calls me home                                                                  she sets me free Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash

I want  to stop and watch  the leaves fall from  the  trees dancing toward  the ground and floating on a breeze

when i wander     may i know, i create my own magic     wherever i go 11-2021

Listen. I am dancing with you holding you close we twist through the night I am your keeper I am your fire I am your light.                   I am.

Photo by Maksym Kaharlytskyi on Unsplash the thoughts that fill my mind get me lost every time i listen because               she is incessant               because               ignoring her is impossible her voice leads into a labyrinth          where every turn is toward self-destruction          turn right: find fear          turn left: insecurity          straight: unending grief          behind: self-hate the way out is blocked. i stumble through the passages          toward every dead-end          my face tear-stained          her voice a brutal attack          against my core. this path creates confusion this one unmakes me    ...

the wheel spins 'round my fate dependent on where it stops but it just keeps spinning Photo by Brian Suh on Unsplash

 breathe in and breathe out                         in this way                          make everything stop                          when you feel too much

how to practice living magic:           move through the world           one small step at a time           gently, with presence          

I could never withstand the things I've put you through. but still, you love me.

  dried up dreams shriveled and transformed pardoned. dust blown away by the wind

she’ll be gone in four days’ time. four days. for days upon days her room will remain empty the bed permanently made and I will find comfort in the lingering smell of her      one of only a few things      she left behind

water gently licks the shoreline rocks as it pulls away the white caps growl and crash back onto shore

Photo by Calvin Hanson on Unsplash nestled in the corner cushion cold feet tucked under my legs  head resting on a pillow awake yet dreaming i am wild, free to be whole, in love with me no longer in need of the old words: (selfish . . . too much . . . liar . . . not enough . . .) here:  I   Am   Whole still reality calls me home but as i un-dream i un-become 

Brevity is art editing out dispensables keeping only requisites Photo by Mathilde Langevin on Unsplash

When the poems don't come: Get quiet, listen Soak in the moment Poems are born in silence.

Introvert stays home watches tv, reads a book and misses people Photo by Kinga Cichewicz on Unsplash

  Photo by Fred Kearney on Unsplash The colors bleed together     into a mass of indistinguishable shapes a swirl, like the background     when you spin on a tilt-a-whirl the rising discomfort, straight from the belly, the pressure at the back of the head, a chorus of discomfort     singing above a symphony of symptoms.

In college, I got a little obsessed with coffee. Somehow I got it in my head that writers drink coffee. Part of this, I’m sure, was because my writing professors always carried around their coffee mugs. They had their mugs sitting on their desks during class. They had them on their desks during office hours. They walked down the halls carrying their mugs. I’d meet with other writers from my classes and they too would have their cups of coffee while we wrote.  I started ordering coffee and drinking it but I never really liked it. Beyond the jittery feeling, it also made my stomach hurt. Still, I kept drinking it for a time. I tried different flavors, like hazelnut thinking that might help. I do love hazelnut. I tried adding lots of creamer and sugar. That only made my stomach more upset. And then one day I learned that one of my writing professors only ever had water inside his mug. This was a revelation to me. I realized then that the tactic I’d been using at parties, of filling my...

  I reach, right arm across,      twisting paraspinal muscles,          stretching but only succeed     in straining          inflamed tissue.

I caught myself criticizing my home the other day. In all honesty, it's not an unusual occurrence. I live in a double-wide and I feel self-conscious about this fact sometimes. Our double-wide, like all double-wide's, is a long rectangle. It's difficult to furnish and feel comfortable in rooms that are long and rectangular. They're just the wrong shape for living. The washing machine and dryer take up most of the space that is also used as an entry into the house, meaning that clean clothes inevitably end up falling onto a very dirty floor and that floor is always dirty, even right after I clean it because shoes are dirty. The kitchen cupboards and counters and drawers are not a standard size. Actually, everything is double-wide sized. I could go on and on about what I hate about this house. The ugly mauve flower print on the kitchen walls. The cramped bathroom. The ugly stripe pattern on the bathroom walls. The walls themselves, which are little more than glorified car...

You ask me questions   my brain turns them over     and writes the loveliest stories          of a life I didn't live. Photo by  Hannah Jacobson  on  Unsplash   

wind singing through pines i walk alone, with nature as my companion

I can't focus. I've been sitting here for almost two hours.  I write a sentence. I delete it. I write another. I delete it also. I don't know what I want to say. Everything feels forced or dry or boring.  This is my favorite work.  Not this part specifically, where I'm sitting here unfocused and deleting everything I write because I'm judging what my fingers peck out. This part is pure torture. In this space, I feel fairly certain that I was not meant to do this work. I've convinced myself numerous times in the last hour to give it up, "it" being more than just this so-far-failed essay.  But I've been here before. This part is where I always start. Even when my thought-writing produces something brilliant, as soon as I sit down to write it out something changes and it no longer seems as worthy or important as it did in my head.  No, this is not the part I love. But it is still part of the work.  Type without judgment.  Dive deeply into descriptions...

thinking of the why's trying to understand you i can't get closer Photo by i.am_nah on Unsplash   

blossoms unfolding their scent, their beauty,                        this is  joy, a world of color unfurling

  people are waiting hoping i speak something profound but i am completely empty

Photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash    A mirror cannot hold complexity,  inner beauty, three-dimensionality and reflect it back.

through stained glass windows a world of color awaits the rising sun Photo by Javier Borrego on Unsplash   

a wet paper bag threatening to spill contents during a down pour

man loses one shoe to puddle, in parking lot as rain falls from sky

Your words over mine layered in a symphony of heated sound Photo by  Brett Jordan  on  Unsplash

strange  the way years pass  yet loss remains so fresh, but what a miracle  to have memories. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255  

expanding my lungs feeding my entire system: precious oxygen

knitting, while outside, fresh drops fall on the window ushering in spring

as snow turns water, sun comes closer to earth and birds return

 Everyone is so excited to be sort of, possibly, probably, in small ways, coming out of pandemic life and "getting back to normal." I want to punch something or cry every time I hear, read, or otherwise take in someone else's feelings about this. As I inspect these feelings, I've come to realize that I've got layers on layers of trauma surrounding the pandemic. My trauma differs from the trauma that all the "normal" people talk about because it's compounded trauma. For example, pandemic isolation for me comes on top of a growing isolation that had already been happening for 9.5 years before the pandemic started. And my isolation won't end when pandemic isolation ends for all the healthy able-bodied people in my life. It won't end probably ever. And that's just one example.  I feel trapped a lot lately. This isn't a new feeling for me. I have a sense that I've felt imprisoned more often than not in my life, penned in on all sides a...

photo by Oliver Hihn via unsplash before the world wakes there's a moment of stillness then the sun rises

People come and go. It never gets easier losing a friendship

Faith (noun):      1.  mental acceptance of and confidence in a claim as truth without evidence supporting the claim.     2.  the theme for members of illuminate for January and February 2021. *** I’ve been thinking about this theme for two months now, asking myself what, if anything, I have to say on the subject. In all honesty, I haven’t come up with much in the near 60 days I’ve had to ponder this. But as I stood in the shower today, letting the hot water wrap me in an envelope of wet warmth, the smell of Indian lilac filling my nose and bringing me back into myself, the first thing that settled in my mind was about faith in relationships. I’m no stranger to insecurity in my life. There are days I feel so insecure that I lash out and make accusations or demands that are ridiculous. Sometimes, my mind is so empty of confidence and so full of paranoia I want to crawl into the bed and hide under the covers permanently. I’ve been known to sabotage my ow...

winter memories, dedicated to my sister we made paths in snow unique designs every time just using our feet