it matters not when life begins or ends; it is the in between the crooked path, the highs, the lows as most lives go, pendulums swing and we obsess in the extremes but that’s not where the rubber hits the road, i’m told, steady as she goes, the wise have said, don’t lose your head, don’t sweat the insignificant, but who’s to say what matters most at end of day if truth be told, if truth exists the rights, the wrongs the reasons why we fight and fret and lean toward right or left, it is the middle, we forget, where time is present, neither here nor there, where god, if god exists, is love, is everywhere, where grace flows freely, despite who, what, why, or where you’ve been, can we just close our eyes, pretend it matters not the second life begins or ends, it is, as it has always been, the in between
she is a crone, yon maple tree her sweetness long run dry her core laid bare, exposed, she stands tall, deeply rooted having weathered many a storm, seasonal extremes, drought and deluge, through it all she greens, her leaves a celebration of resilience, audacity, of life.. a marvel, casting shade to cool and sturdy limbs for nesters, a wonder, though onlookers might surmise her useless, her scarred exterior as evidence, they underestimate her power and the fire that courses through her veins…underestimated to the peril of small minds who’ve forgotten that their shallow roots mingle with hers in the hollows
mist-veiled hints of muted blue pale light dawning, just out of view earthen musk mingling sweet blooms, dew clinging birds singing joy breaks through
The Clogyrnach Poem
This Welsh poetic form is typically a six-line syllabic stanza with an ab rhyme scheme: Line 1: 8 syllables with an a rhymeLine 2: 8 syllables with an a rhymeLine 3: 5 syllables with a b rhymeLine 4: 5 syllables with a b rhymLine 5: 3 syllables with a b rhymeLine 6: 3 syllables with an a rhyme
how unnatural it feels this chill in the air the changing of seasons winter to spring arrested held captive for excruciating seconds, summer in the wing collecting souls for the keeping never to be seen again, transported to the fragrant fields of summer land, of endless summers just beyond the veil, while we weep winter overstaying it’s welcome night spilling into the dawn
Just getting this out of my head and onto the page. I don’t like being angry. But that’s my reality right now and I’m guessing I’m not alone. I don’t want to forget how I’m feeling right now. Accepting it, recognizing it, redirecting this anger toward making a change, to once and for all righting the wrongs of our collective apathy and hopelessness is how i choose to move forward, for myself, for the children, for the outcast, the marginalized, the forgotten…for our world. But first, right now, I’m just angry.
enough is enough
your thoughts and prayers pierce us like daggers emptying our hearts of the last drops of grace for your boastful posturing, your lies, your meaningless words that seek to change the narrative, holding us hostage while you wait, wait, wait for us to forget once again that you really don’t care about the slaughtering of innocents, or for refugees, or others, not like you, please save your prayers to your vengeful god, a hateful god who doles death to the weak, who brandishes weapons of war proudly, a god in whom no mercy can be found for the meek, a god that you’ve created in your own image who boasts of being pro life while shattering the lives of the living we will not forget how you led the lambs to slaughter how you congratulated yourselves, for protecting the rights of monsters, there’s a special place in hell for you, would that I believed in hell
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