Thursday, March 31, 2022

The Good, The Bad, and The Spring(y)

not-quite Journaling, 32

3/20/2022: I noticed the crocus while walking back from the hospital, a couple of days ago. My shoulder was aching, my oral surgeon had just implied that the probability of saving my tooth wasn’t all that great, and my stomach was not-so-quietly questioning the wisdom of exercising 3+ miles away from a clean toilet. But the weather was magnificent, crocuses and daffodils were opening their petals for all to see, and I could finally run 131 minutes on my trampoline without my lungs wanting to explode or my joints wanting to crack. Life isn’t perfect--heck, life is pretty crappy at the moment—but my amaryllis started to bloom on the first day of Spring, and we’re breathing… which means that we still have the chance to make things a bit less suckish. And that is rather great (for now).




 Home is writing,
peculiar poetry,
and you.

3/25/2022: It’s true, home is words (reading them, writing them, sharing them); home is plants (that look and feel loved); home is moments with the ones I love (and love me back) face-to-face and from afar


3/28/2022: The bad: the Crohn’s disease monster visited for some painful days and exhausting nights; the oral surgeon couldn’t save my tooth; around the world, so many people are physically and emotionally hurting for no justifiable reason. The good: the unwanted visitor left without leaving too much damage behind; my jawbone and immune system seem to be strong enough for dental implants; a friend, who had been MIA in a dangerous area for some time, made it home in one piece; all sorts of things are blooming outside; inside, my seedlings are popping out of the soil. 🌱🥰




- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings: #20: A Piece of Cake (where Rommy invites us to write poetry or prose that includes the word “Cake”, and yours truly finds herself thinking about birthdays and wishes and such…).

Thursday, March 24, 2022

Into Old Heartbeats

There is a special place in my heart
for the silver-haired
souls who have seen
and felt
and tasted
and learned so much
more than youth has ever imagined.

I love the knowing in old eyes,
the knowing that sings, “Fluidity,
my dear heart, is a superpower
that can be learned.
If you slow down

(just a bit)
I will share
all my old
story things with you.”

So, I slowdown my living…
dance into old heartbeats,
delight in their story things--
the ones written
on the wrinkled
sheets of their brains,
on the tales life carved
on their faces…
I feel their old words, taste their ink
and learn to grow more.

photo by Milada Vigerova on, Unsplash

- someone, who means a lot to me, has been saying that they feel and look old, and they don’t like it; more than that, they’re getting depressed because of it. Another person—who knows my views on age and growing vintage—asked if I could talk to them, maybe help lift their spirit… I wrote this poem with those thoughts in mind.

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #19: Of Age and Aging and Such…

Thursday, March 17, 2022

Moments of Joy

She’s a bud
in the winter months,
a promise
of spring that unchills
mood and flesh and us.

Our world (and body, in the case of some of us) is in chaos: war, COVID, humans being inhuman… But the universe keeps sprouting moments of joy. Look for them (and share).

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #18: Moments of Joy.


Thursday, March 10, 2022

Winter’s Final Gasp (I hope)

not-quite Journaling, 31

 the book of our time:
pages and pages… of woe

(with love interludes)

2/25/2022: I don’t have nightmares often. But today I woke up screaming, with the sounds and images and stench of war so vivid in my head that it took me a while to figure out that it had been a nasty dream. My heart aches for those who can’t wake up from the nightmarish reality they are being forced to live. I hope they can take a peace-full breath… soon.


Love is what we build
after the lust storm.

3/4/2022: After an exhausting conversation about love at first sight, I was asked to describe romantic love in 9 words; so, I did.


icy chic—
winter’s final gasp
before spring

3/9/2022: Then again, knowing Old Man Winter (and his cold petty ways), it’s more than likely that there will be some more gasping. Still, a wild woman can dream, right? So, here I am… dreaming warmer dreams of spring.

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #17: Heroes.