I will not crow
I will not sing
my soul for you
But I will stand
at the break of night
knowing my song
brought the sun to light
Some things aren't easy to speak of plainly. Or at all. The things we hold dearest or deepest or barest maybe. And we touch them with our writing; unintended utterances sometimes, and sometimes — as a conscious act of embracing the fullness of our humanity. With our hearts aflutter, we sit with our backs in the night, our faces to the light; and we write.
My friend Lori Lamothe…
I didn’t realize when I started there, that you needed to sign up to Pinterest to share them (duh!). I know; the last thing we need is another platform in our lives.
But if you did sign up; you wouldn't have to make boards or start pinning or anything. You can share the pin of your Self-Crafted story on social media you use already.
It's Friday, almost three o’clock. That’s an hour over the twenty-four hours they promised, and many more hours than it usually takes for next-day delivery.
But no matter how much we pretend, nothing is running as it ‘usually’ does. On T.V right now, there is that politician I don't like, talking about the lack of movement between state borders, causing freight delays. Fruit and produce ripening in the fields, with no one to pick them. Freight drivers sleeping in their truck cabins for days, waiting for covid test results at the borders.
The country might be broken. That’s too big…
Hope that a time is
not very far distant when
you can be happy
in the bosom of your much
loved; I long to hear from you
My heart is in pain
and deeply sorrowful while
I announce to you
the sudden unexpected
death of your dear and loved wife
In 1825, Samuel, an up-and-coming artist was far from home. He received a letter from his loving wife, Lucretia, letting him know she was proud of him and missing him. …
I found a Magic Bag of Camels
where there’s always just one more
for when I think the load’s too great
and mine can’t bear another straw
The gorgeous thing about another camel
or perhaps even three more,
is that they talk and share the burden
and they feast upon the straw
So when you pray your heart for lightness
or removal of the straw
ask instead to find the magic bag
of camels, camels galore.
Three days ago, my state clocked up 200 days in lockdown, but being regional, my little corner of the world had been exempted for…
Did I ever tell you that her down the road is an eejit? One of them, that goes about taking pictures of her garden instead of weeding it — You know the kind. Not that I’m complaining mind; I send the older ones round hers to earn themselves some friendly coin there, weeding and washing her car and whatnot.
That's how one of them come to tell us, that herself is an ‘artiste’. Yep, an artiste. At the beginning of these troubled times, she started writing little poems on post-it notes to leave all over her ‘environs’. …
In the Dreaming,
where all the place is yet unformed,
the most beautiful creature stirs below and comes up to land.
And as she moves, the mountains form,
And as she rests, she calls out life to join her by the water.
And when she moves again,
across the skies,
you can know her colors.
I was not going to write about the Rainbow Serpent, but when I posted the picture above and saw it spread across the screen, she came into my mind. And who am I to argue with Creator Gods? …
An ordinary heart, Sacred like yours
A little bruised, but loved and wrapped in cabbage leaves
Thrives in warmth
Winter makes me strange. I think it is because most of my energy goes into keeping the grey from stealing the days from me. I dream of red. Red, like London buses, or the balloon in that grey Paris movie. I don't mean far-away red, just red that defies the seeping fingers of grey.
And Desire Red. The red of dreams powerful enough to hold me together when all I want to do is be scattered.
What colors hold…
There was a baby I once cared for,
and for the long life of me; I cannot, throw away her shoes
Not shoes really, but wee rubber sandals,
that held her tiny small steps, and her big Angel happiness
I see her still; unsteady, stumbling, but oh so joyful
and I hear her glee and the patter of her tiny footfall
forever, eternally, imprinting on my heart
I once imagined that The Old Woman who Lived in the Shoe was a type of foster carer, for all the lost children and foundlings of storybooks, fairytales, and nursery rhymes. …