so this is what it feels like to exist at a time of history repeating, to wonder who they will come for next; to resist hate in a world where kindness and compassion are revolutionary acts, where caring is a liability, where the words on my cell phone are an indictment, where it’s just a matter of time before they find me out…well… I’m not hiding…like mercury colliding… I refuse to blend into oblivion with those who sleep through this nightmare while innocents suffer… I read today, the bees are dying someone should do something, but the inconvenient truth of the matter is, someone is me, and I don’t know what to do, except to shine a light, to tell you, to tell anyone who’ll listen, the bees are dying…because I think you should know
~kat
Today’s poem speaks for itself. That said, I present to you today’s glimmer…literally, lightning in the distance and the sounds of midsummer nights in the foothills of Bramlett Mountain. Even while the world sleeps, the forest sings, for the trees perhaps? Another lesson to consider from these woods that I call home.
Today’s Glimmer: A doe and her twins under a hickory tree in the Bramlett Mountain Foothills ~kat / July 2025
switching to survival mode
I know how to survive, how to stretch a few leftovers into more how to add water to milk to make it last one day longer… when I was a girl my family lived in a motel with a kidney-shaped pool a few steps away from the interstate, from an underpass where others lived, who weren’t as fortunate as we I know where to find pennies, enough buy fast food dollar meals, how to barter for groceries, taking care of someone else’s kid so mine could eat, how to resurrect hand-me downs to clothe us, sewing squares of well-worn fabric into colorful quilts to brighten our space, oh I know…
someone told me the other day, you’ve done a lot of things in your life… I have, I smiled…I wanted to say it’s called survival, but only other survivors understand that you do the jobs no one else will do, building experience and skills to gain a few more pennies, moving from job to job, several at a time, as time sifts through your life like sand. i can make do and make work the crumbs and scraps of life, things others toss in the trash keeping us just shy of enough… it’s been decades now…decades…
I still keep a jar of spare change always at the ready just in case, I hunt for bogo sales at the market stocking my pantry with one extra I keep clothes patched and useful long after they’ve gone out of style and yet…and yet I wake each morning grateful for the sun and the rain, and this blessed life, my greatest accomplishments are my children and their children and theirs
they say the tariffs will raise the cost of living for those of us who pay to live…I’m ready, though I wish we didn’t need to be…I know how to survive in the best and the worst of times. as long as i can keep a pot of soup simmering, there will always be plenty enough to share and room for one, or two, or a few more at my table this is how we survive…together
invisible people have privileged gray lives they never get angry or give in to strife everything’s rosy, yes, everything’s great they’re quick to admonish those battered by hate who dare to feel angry at those who don’t care dark souls who surrendered to king yellow hair not enemies, they chide, we’re all the same treat all with compassion, there’s no one to blame but I have a feeling that they’ve never known the sting of oppression, of hate in their home from people they loved who don’t seem to care that the vote they cast hurt family somewhere forgiveness is bitter for those now denied simple compassion and the right to live life we don’t want to hear it, your lofty ideals til you walk in our shoes and know how it feels when half of the world thinks you shouldn’t exist the audacious preach virtue in ignorant bliss
~kat
A rant today. I read a well-meaning post on social media that struck me the wrong way. It had a long-winded “why can’t we all just get along” vibe. Heart-felt and a tad naive, its message was also condescending to those of us with bullseyes on our backs. Those of us targeted as other, undesirables who, if the powers that be had their way, would be disappeared from the face of the earth or at least from this country. Condescending…because we’re not allowed to be angry or hold those responsible for this dumpster fire accountable. Admonished to keep the peace. To get along. To forgive and and show compassion to those who would point us out in a heartbeat if it meant finding favor with the powerful in the hopes that they might reap the benefits of the coup they helped fuel. It’s convenient to forgive and forget when you’re not living in a nightmare.
So I wrote a poem…therapy that rescues me from responding directly to such blather. I’ll crawl back under my rock now, and tuck myself in behind the closet door, hoping the monsters don’t find me.
Much love, peace, and glimmers of hope to you. As it happens I was visited today by several mourning doves. Often seen as a symbol of love, hope, peace, and new beginnings, I think mother nature knew I would need some encouragement today. ✨✨✨💚💚💚✨✨✨
~kat
A little love, hope, peace, and the promise of new beginnings…today’s much needed glimmer.
we have good neighbors here…we rarely see each other, but if we need them or they us, we’ve an open border policy where fences are for leaning while talking about life and the weather
~kat
Living in the hills is a breath of fresh air (literally). Unlike our urban friends whose homes are packed tightly into neighborhoods, with walls and windows mere feet apart, artificially lit by humming street lamps, the scent of exhaust fumes and hot rubber settle in the air, the rural space I call home are green, our neighbors, acres away, rarely seen but occasionally heard on crisp quiet nights when sounds carry in the mist…blips of muffled conversation, laughter, the sound of tires crunching gravel driveways.
It it understood, that we look out for one another. Not in the creepy, peer through shades, nosy neighbor way, filling one’s head with juicy gossip to share at the quick stop. I may only see my neighbors these days a few times a year, but we are community.
Isn’t that what we all want after all? A place to call home, to live out our pursuit of liberty and happiness in peace. Somewhere in this devolution of our humanity we’ve lost our way. It’s ironic to me that living so far from civilization makes me feel less alone than I ever felt in the city. Here where scarce neighbors are neighborly and kindness is an unspoken code.
much love, peace, and glimmers of community to you!
~kat ✨✨✨💚💚💚✨✨✨
Sijo
A sijo is a traditional Korean poetic form, characterized by its three-line structure. Each line typically contains 14-16 syllables, resulting in a total of 44-46 syllables for the entire poem. The first line is introduces a theme or situation, the second line develops it, and the third line introduces a twist or unexpected turn, providing the poem’s conclusion.
when you wake up in a cloud, a pea-soupy shroud, thinking out loud… it’s easy to dismiss the day, bury your head, grab more sleep but the clock ticks away, there are bills to pay, promises to keep
~kat
Sometimes a glimmer can be bittersweet. Today I mourn the removal of the ash tree that first greeted us when we moved to the mountains nearly 5 years ago. It was clear she was on her last legs. Each spring her blooms and leaf sprouts became less and less. This year it was time for her to move on. But not before leaving me with a heart shaped burrow into her trunk. I have no idea how the layers of bark wore away so perfectly. Whether it was a creative insect or a bird that burrowed this simple message. But I like to think she knew how much I loved her… of course I told her so. (Don’t you talk to your trees? If not, you should…and give them a hug if you’re so inclined.)
A nice man and his son happened by looking for work. He’s a tree trimmer by trade and offered his services for a number of trees on our property. He was hungry, he said, and needed the work. He pleaded in broken English (obviously not his native language). After quoting us a very fair price, we hired this man and his son to help us put my heart tree to rest. They worked meticulously, moved the timber to the edge of the woods and cleaned up the debris. We parted ways with a promise to hire him in the future to trim other trees in need of TLC.
The side yard where the tree once stood looks barren now. Ironic how the removal of a barren tree can make an area look more barren. I plan to plant a few trees in its stead. A magnolia, dogwood, or maybe a weeping cherry tree. Ash trees do not do well in this area.
The crows are most upset by her removal. She was their favorite perch. We had many conversations, me on my back porch and them, high above surveying their peanut station, letting me know when it was running low. They gave me quite a talking to yesterday evening from the nearby hickory trees. I hope they forgive me.
Things change…life goes on and the timber of this great old tree will return to the earth becoming shelter for small critters, and food for fungus, lichen, moss and insects. Even in death we, like this old tree have the potential to leave glimmers behind.
Much love, peace , and bittersweet glimmers to you!
~kat ✨✨✨💚💚💚✨✨✨
The ash tree over the years above and 2025 below
Sijo
A sijo is a traditional Korean poetic form, characterized by its three-line structure. Each line typically contains 14-16 syllables, resulting in a total of 44-46 syllables for the entire poem. The first line is introduces a theme or situation, the second line develops it, and the third line introduces a twist or unexpected turn, providing the poem’s conclusion.
So it is easier for you to find all the parts/chapters of my ongoing fiction series, I created a new page that lists all the links. You can check it out HERE!
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