Today if you do one thing remember to breathe deeply into those spaces that have caused so much hurt and exhale through to the other side where a bird might be perched. Or the moon might be resting ever so quietly on a fence.
Today if you do one thing, think about who you are right now, and who you were one year ago. Five years ago. Ten years ago. 15 years ago.
Take all the time you need. Go slow. Breathe belly deep. Then jot down a feel, a word, a few sentences for each. …
A few weeks ago, when I was sinking rather quickly into the Gulf of Writer’s Despair, I asked myself, are you real?
To put this question in context, I used to have a conversation with a dear mentor. No matter how often I needed to ask, “are you real?” They’d always reply, “Yes. I am real.”
Well, something magical happened when I asked myself. The words I heard were so clear.
You are real. It’s those around you who are telling you otherwise. Telling you to fit in and be normal. You aren’t normal. Amen!
Heck, when the furnace kicks…
Some say they sit down to write a poem, but I rarely have that experience. Usually, a poem writes me.
Before the dust settles
the spirits will rise, and we’ll dance
under this clear, clear sky.
Where stars are overlayed
on the bluest-blackest midnight,
we’ll hear the angel’s singing sighs.
How the essence of femininity
mediates the union of masculinity
ushered by her intuitive sensitivity.
Let’s embrace our true openness
as our feet press upon this earth.
Let’s rise into our soul’s creativity.
With this verdant key of tenderness
giving us courage to be
our perfectly imperfect identities.
There’s a fine symphony
waking before dawn.
Ordinary takes center stage
with a mug of warm.
Lights are dim
casting mystery and shadow
in the cove of familiar
as sleepy fingertips
convert words to song.
builds a blanket nest
in the dark blue skies
where ancient whales belong.
Hope, joy, sorrow, gratitude,
are the waves spraying
an invisible string of images
while the sun knits the sky
in a chain of marmalade stitches
tinged with crimson.
This is our symphony of living,
sharing, loving, dying,
giving, and feeling. …
The sun was still awake at 5 pm.
I blinked at its resolve
and saw tiny hopes
dance along the clear brown branches.
I didn’t close the blinds
but left them full
the wideness kept me open
the blindness of the lightness
told a story
there are reasons for seasonal blues.
Rotating through the wind
touching each fair blade of grass
coaxing the Nuthatches.
Maybe I’ll see a Robin soon
or a daffodil will push straight
through to my heart space.
Sheltered still in a robe of silvery blues questioning the existence of what is real ‘til a tear trembled…
The rainy windows are crying.
Inside opals knit with grays
while the earth’s lush colors
of holy browns and greens sway.
Silence can be sweet or deafening.
Alone time is okay until loneliness hits.
Exclusiveness nullifies belongingness.
Advice giving too often forgets to listen.
Touch is a ghost.
Pour another cup of warmth
into an eggshell blue cup
and hold her tight.
The fragileness of this empty space
is too familiar.
It amplifies what’s been lost
without the footsteps
needs and wants.
This life amplifies the curious
calling for completeness.
Mostly awakened in the silences when aloneness wears speakers announcing…
When the clock’s ticking fades
and the to-dos are no longer made
let’s push aside the whys and why nots
and only listen to our soul’s sweet call
inside the wild of it all.
Where we become the shivers
of a dreamy seasonal sleep
her branches, the verily deep
are the bones inside our seeing
we find what we are looking for.
A signature written on ebony keys
followed by ivory, the taste is complete.
The heart of every single nuance
is set alive by the tapping of our feet.
Its rhythm is our soul’s river. …
The bees are asleep
in their artful matrix home
until I drizzle raw honey
over my sleepy seeping tea leaves.
I begin to imagine
the bees round sunny sounds
buzzing brilliantly brave
and abundantly heroic.
Clinging to their wee sleeves
are golden orbs of mystery.
I can sense them
inside of my daydream.
But for now
winter has covered our wings
with honey’s sweet succulent nectar
dancing with tea leaves.
Dreaming is a bridge between us
in our cozy respective winter inactivity.
Those sleepy bees and me
waiting for the bountiful buds of spring.
Another related poem written last year:
Carolyn Riker is an author of three beautiful books of poetry and prose. She’s also a licensed mental health therapist in private practice. Her books are available on Amazon.
I think of you the most,
when I’m lonely
beyond my ordinary blues
but extraordinary ones.
I think of you the most,
when I see lovers share
playfully exposing their hearts
and I want to tell you
how it makes me feel.
I think of you the most,
when a movie ends,
and I can no longer share
my thoughts with you.
Then I switch up and
dry my melancholy,
because while my heart
wants to revisit
the highlighted sweetness,
I know there was hurt between us.
So, I venture into my loneliness and ask her what does she need…
“To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.”
— Pablo Neruda
Most of us have Valentine’s Day tales that aren’t the best. I know I’ve had quite a few of my own. Waiting and waiting for my date to show up and then they didn’t. Waiting for hours to be seated for a fancy dinner, which turned out not to be as fancy. Wondering if they’ll bring me flowers but telling me, “Not today. I’ll get them tomorrow when they go on sale.”
Nevertheless, 23-years ago, on February 14th, I brought my…