Greetings from New England. It’s gorgeous. Here’s a few pictures of Portland Maine and a picture I took in Bangor of Stephen King’s house. Off to Cape Elizabeth and Salem Massachusett tomorrow. 💕
I’ve spent hours walking through the woods between bough and bramble..I feed on oaks in the netted forest. The sun hushed sky lighting my way. I make up rhymes straight from my chaotic head. Finding reflections in nature’s movement on a gentle October day.
I ghost dance with a song of myself. Bridging the unbridgeable. My body haunted by the hum of yesteryears and
things left undone. Wishing I got over things as easy as some. Yet, I’m obligated to feel every missteps and my wrong opinions of my battered soul. Always the first to stick myself with pins,
even though I’ve been blessed with unconditional love and acceptance. I’m still afraid of never being enough, of feeling
alone, of being forgotten. Scared of not being able to discern
genuine affection from inauthentic affected entanglement. Why am I still so naïve? Why do I trust too much?
As I walk back toward home. I remember
that my foundation is strong. That each
path I’ve traversed has led me where I’m
suppose to be. Somehow fuller from grief
and faults start. The frame of myself feeling each chilly breeze, each twig broken. Never quite able to lay down the
dregs of my soul. There are so many ways to go wrong. I refuse to count them
anymore. I’m tired of being anxious on my behalf. I will always have a melancholy heart, but my spirit is formidable.
Home now with a cup of hot chocolate and the warmth of kindreds, I offer up a toast to sorrows felt, those I’ve lost who have long moved on, and to the realities of self. Here’s to the story of stories left to be told, to long walks and ink saturated nights. Lines that shutter and get redefine, do overs, and the allure of fresh pine. Cheers to a woman child with a pocket full of thorns, and shooting stars in her eyes, a life of contusions, and cherry picked pages, the girl who lives for the scent of honeysuckles and always finds the will to go on.
This song is so beautiful. My heart!
When I was a child
how I love to dress
my face in a book.
Entering worlds I’ve
I’d hide behind the cover.
discovering secret gardens,
children in boxcars, and
little women decked out
On summer nights when
I could be coaxed out of
the books I loved.
My brother and I would
chase fireflies and play
Mother May I under
the backyard lights.
We were safe then under
the stars and constellations.
These were the years of
innocence and freedom
As a child you don’t notice
things like the moon losing
itself to the sky, or the cold
touch of the air.
As an adult you’re more apt
to notice the bee, the sting
the thorn, the horsewhip
Yet there’s still the beauty
of stories in a book and
nature’s sweet allure .
Sitting on a porch swing
the wind blowing hazily
Losing yourself in words
The call of distant shores,
The lure of courtships and
rosehip. In these times the
world brightens. The mind
alive with a gentle pitch
No need to rush or fuss
The sun refuses to faltered
Your soul becomes supernatural
Life’s frailties for a moment abated .
Let the sunshine caress you,
as if it were a lover.
Live today like it is everything
Don’t be afraid to let the wind
Feel the tenderness of the garden.
Take in the color, scent,
and aliveness of the flowers blossoming.
Let the sky’s blue direct you.
between what’s your’s and what’s their’s Feel the richness of the grass
under your feet.
Let nature be the cure that relieves you. If only for a moment, be well
and another song by The Maine Yep, still om that music kick 🙂
My handsome and wonderful friend Alex’s beautiful poem on nature. A lovely read. Check it out. x
The cold, transparent, frozen, hand of Winter
with its heavy, shivering, fingers
and sharp yet fragile claws,
touches all it can see,
covering three season’s worth of nature
with its web of glass,
and the haunting words it uses
confirms its work has been done.
Spring’s hand gently yet forcefully
pushes Winter aside
with its leafy green, smooth, steady fingers,
and removes all of Winter’s trace
with a few brief touches
that have been rehearsed for so long,
concluding with a lovely melody
that it sings quietly with perfect rhythm.
Summer’s decorated, dextrous, talented hand
waving goodbye to spring,
while at the same time
summoning the rest of the animal kingdom,
who are attracted,
by the infinite shades of yellow,
and the hypnotically enchanting
wordless song sung with such happiness.
Autumn’s hand gives a quiet signal
to the ever rejoicing Summer,
before the ever different creatures
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They gave each other the sweetness of apples,
immeasurable by hand.
An orchard assembled by
loyalty and determination,
where two horizons met
bound by soul constellations
An intimacy that went beyond a
bed of grass and fleeting endorphin
But no matter how bountiful the gathering,
we sometimes become too accustomed
to the beauty of the return.
We forget to take time
to savor what we hold dear,
clinging too long to
memories of past harvesting
Or we become consumed with
the yields of new fruit.
No time to fight or even mourn
for bruised apples
left to oxidize in the
Neglect takes root, hurt unbridles
And careless words become an
apron full of briars.
A spider lodged in the hem.
The orchard once ablaze and alive sheds
it’s golden mass becoming nothing
more than a misbegotten shadow,
a crop of blue scars, an artifact