Floral Wonderland

A caressing of leaves

like a quiet clapping of hands

and a halt as the rushing breeze curtails.

The sun beams downward

forcing freckles of light to
appear on stones

shed warmth on my skin

the left of my brow

skin thirsty for light

mind hungry for a relinquishing of troubles

a re-weaving of undone peace

knotted threads

a quest for serenity

if only for a moment.

A monarch butterfly of amber and black
flaps it delicate wings above

small purple flower buds that

bubble toward the sun

reaching as high as they can

like arms of a toddler

asking to be held.

Plump bumblebees with a flower addiction

next to white puffs
cone-shaped florets

long skinny whiskers

and tiny green fingers.

Heart-shaped pancakes expose their flat faces

beside bright yellow blooms

with dark bristled centres

and an agile fly on top.

And there I see it

the fairest of them all

a tall slender firework popsicle

with unborn children dancing below.

Oh, but the baby daisies are just as sweet

as their sunny centres burst brightly

between twenty white petals

as if to say

I'm not a weed!

Spider-like legs splay outward on the tops
of the violet corn-on-the-cobs

next to sad-looking echinacea imposters

and branches with no hope

of ever being as beautiful as the 

honey bee and orange bug

sucking pollen out of the lilac puffs.

It's obvious the dragonflies are having the time of their lives

and that the puny orange hummingbird-wasps are pretty happy too

as they should be

living their simple, purposeful lives

a present moment dwelling

with no past or future

besides the death that awaits

a shrivelling of crispy red leaves

a slow fall to the ground

before blooming brightly again

in this floral wonderland.

Before the Blue

If you could see the clouds

you'd wonder if their edges were made of silver

a stormy pewter billows from their centre

casting shadows on the people and things

moving swiftly,

heavily,

in the sky

before the blue.

Nothingness

Let it die
Solemn words erupt from the speakers of my phone, appropriately,
sitting next to me
by two glasses of water
an old lamp
and a box of tissues

Nothing grounds me more than writing does
a place I go when I need therapy
like hot water boiling over
making a mess
rushing over to take it off the stove.

These days I am listless
nothing really makes sense
I'm either lost in a short-lived crying spell
or consumed by subtle bouts of fear
of what ensues from periods of deliberate nothingness.

Nothingness being my current plan of action
To shift from a state of everythingness, big and bright,
to a partly intentional sheet of grey
a canvas perhaps, white and blank
with a few streaks of pink or purple
it's not all un-lively, you know.

But the truth is that it's very hard to be a habitual non-stopper
an addict of achievement
a chronic over-thinker
a frenetic go-getter
and force yourself to slow things down.

It's hardly forcing, though, when you simply become incapable of things
It's more of a rewiring of sorts
a re-evaluation of ways
a set of questions you begin to ask
seeking answers from places you've never been.

I'm tip-toeing carefully
walking forwards and backwards at the same time
I feel like a zamboni driver
resurfacing all the scratches
the places that need smoothing
a little bit of care
attention to detail
a revitalization of passions left behind in the pursuit of success
a redefining of what makes me truly happy
in the first place.

Three Daffodils

I saw three daffodils
a whimsical web of raindrops
a canopy sewn together by curly branches
and drowsy green leaves

Little green buds below my feet
like stepping on sweet peas

A trickling of water
rolling down tree trunks.

Bird's Eye View

__

Black socks

folded neatly, in little piles,

a slight bend forward and

a seat on the edge of the bed.

Elbows on thighs

clasped hands

an upward tilt of the head

and a moment for thought.

"Bird's eye view," he says.

As handsome as ever.

And there I sit

fulfilling my writing prompt

of how we'd appear to a white bird gliding overhead

or a black one:

handcrafted boxes side by side

concrete between us

glass in all directions

cars on the streets

and people on sidewalks.

Noises to my right, an open door

it's Friday night and folks are celebrating.

__

Tug of War

Like a wave, it rushes inland

unsuspectingly.

An upward burst, fleeing from the impending flood of thoughts unwelcome;

of vivid imaginations snatching present moments like a thief.

Little streams of fright trickle slowly, convincingly:

a clashing of credence

a harrowing

a tug of war

and swiftly,

a halt.

A sigh of relief

like a wave rushing outward

unsuspectingly.

Saturdays

___

Little droplets of rain

throw themselves gently onto the glass

it's Saturday and the sky is grey

a sheet of cloud, one big blanket across the sky

like a can of paint.

These are the days that ask us loudly, obviously:

"What must you do today that cannot wait?"

And we trot, wayfaring down streets for cups of hot coffee or tea,

or we vacuum the carpets while pondering tonight's dinner

or we wait in line at grocery stores, in liquor stores, in little shops

because Saturdays are the best days for those things.

Saturdays don't yell at us like Mondays do, or Tuesdays.

___

True Love

___

My heart hurts from the

heaviness of love that it

holds for you and for nothing else

you are the butterflies inside

the sweat on my skin when

you cross my mind

the daydreams at noon and

the gaze in my eyes as

I ponder the depths of your

beautiful mind

you glow like nothing but a

star in the sky as it bursts its light

you are the very same shine

as soothing as sand

as delicate as lace

there is no way to orchestrate

a symphony as flawlessly as

your hand fits in mine as we sit side by side

I'm in ruins from your smile

when our fingers intertwine and

the time we watched the sun rise

I can now accurately define

bliss and true love

for the very first time.

___

Bird Therapy

Sunflower seeds and chickadees

soft rolling waves and a chilly breeze

the beaming sun and tall birch trees

I'll take another day like today, please.

______

Today was what I like to call a slow Sunday. After cucumber wine until the early hours the night before, I got up, washed my face, threw on my new sandy grey speckled knit, and drove home to the sounds of one of my favourite bands Needtobreathe. I swear I can never get enough of their songs.

After tidying my bedroom, sorting through paperwork, changing my fish bowl and watering my plants, I stepped outside for a mid-afternoon waterfront walk. It was so refreshing; the kind I've needed for a while. And I suppose it has been a while: winter is long, after all, and sunny days like today aren't easy to come by.

The air was cool but the sun was perfectly warm, and I fed some chickadees right from the palm of my hand. This, my friends, is something I must do more often. Like a bird therapy; a featherlight heartbeat lands on your hand, clasping its tiny claws onto your fingers, just for a moment, to snatch a sunflower seed or half a peanut.

Connecting to the world around us, the real, real world with real creatures and things that live alongside us, is so healing: trees, buds, sprouts, swans, all of it. It's therapy.

Fleeting

___

One foot in front of the other;

there's isn't such thing as turning back

it's grey and it's hard to see if you turn your head 'round;

even if you squint, the details are blurry and you can't make out much

and even if you could see it, crystal clear,

like it was right before you, or in your hands,

or wrapped around your waist

or sitting across from you like things do

it wouldn't matter much

because the very things that once were

no longer are;

they've drifted

rearranged,
shifted,

and the memories are nothing but
limp, boneless fragments
of thoughts and feelings past
floating,
fleeting.

___

Adorned

__

The air is sweet

and the sun is warm

green leaves

peach blooms

and branches adorned

There's a warmth sweeping softly

through the breeze

and the only things around me are

birdsongs and trees

A look to the left

the sun sets in the sky

above me is amber

as leaves start to die

The sky is pale blue

the clouds grey and cream

how happy I am

this isn't a dream.

__

Home

__

The earth is alive

all around there is singing

the voices of chickadees

a robin

a stream of water

The glowing silhouette of tiny insects

flutter before the setting sun

they all have a place to be

I wonder where they go

I wonder what they do

I wonder what they see.

The orange sun falls lower in the sky;

and just above the fence it greets me

a good evening

a good night

It's bright and satiating and

fills my thirsty body with light

I breathe in

the world around me smells so green;

the grass is dewy

the ground is soft

and beneath the lilac tree

somehow I'm home. 

__

Hills And Stones

___

Do you ever wish that you could have a peek into your future?

just a glimpse,

just one curious eye through a keyhole

just one sense of the road ahead

of what's to come

of what's to tread

At the very least, we can be content knowing

the future will unravel seamlessly;

it will be velvety like the moon on the water and

the hardships will be overcome

like hills and like stones 

they will be subdued and

harmony will prevail if

we follow the song

of our soul

and the words

from

within

___

Light

___

My life has been rocky and swaying

and the darkness comes without warning;

I'm walking gently through the grass

there are soft blooms, and in the distance there is light

I can see it but I can't yet feel it

I can see it but I can't quite touch it

I know it's there, but there's a fog in between

Inside I am driven by fire,

iron and raw knowing;

there is a shield and it surrounds me

yet I'm swallowed by the size of it all

the scale of the hurt and the guilt

the pain of taking what once was

and making it no longer anything;

of taking what once had a pulse

a song

and a future,

and tearing it in half

like a letter you just couldn't get right

Each day is a new emotion

a new sense of clarity

or a new sense of fear

But I'm walking slowly past the trees

there are budding greens, and in the distance there is light

I can see it but I can't yet feel it

I can see it but I can't quite touch it

I know it's there, and the fog will clear.

___

An Afternoon On My Bed

Silky rain outside my window

plush fur and rolling purrs

nestled by my feet

acoustic guitar

sweet melodies

voices soaked in heart and soul

Trees as still as stone

buds and blooms and beginnings of blossoms

Soft light, late 'noon hue

My feet are cold but

my bed is warm and

it holds me still in

this moment where I

feel peaceful and good.

___

February

homeward

___

I go about my February days

cold and evaporated

this time of year is a standstill

hard as a stone

tedious and grey and arid as bone.

Few times I have closed my eyes and breathed in the sun

only a glimpse

and I dream of her light

how she quenches my thirst

but winter's veil ensues, pulling me deep into its womb

and I sink into lonesome and longing;

for the dewy rhythm of blooming and bright

to sweep through my inhales and dance on my skin.

Until then I dream, eyes closed, for the end of hibernation

and I greet the inklings of warmth and wildflowers

as I go about my February days.

___

withered

___

A cruel cycle weaves it's silky web

and I brace myself for the storm

seated inside

orchestrating my every move

and like the wilderness,

I seek

the daydreams in my head

thrashing and let down

withered, I wait

contentment seeps through

binding me to reality

until the waves return

an ebb and flow.

___

found

Found Self,

magic erupts with a peaceful mind

heart ever-expanding

ever-lasting knowing...

fear escapes, inhabiting a new world

love is found within and

freedom downpours

bound by the sky

a limitless flight.

I've been so indecisive. I've thought I've known the answer, and then I have no idea. It's the realness that frightens me yet all she is, is freedom. Abundant offerings are found along the path of Truth.

I guess throughout the winter I did lose track of parts of me. A readily influenced, timid chameleon. All the busyness has left me dazed and docile. Fear has been holding hands tightly with Ego and one foot in front of the other they lead except, their destination is a foreign land.

The trees whisper clarity and paint me with answers. The stillness is freeing and the frozen winter is literally a frozen standstill.

A found self is reclaimed amidst peace. Peace is found in silence. Silence is found in stillness. Stillness is found in  us.

Wisdom lies beneath

and he's terribly patient.

carousel

I've made a mess but there's a freedom that I feel
there's something exquisite about the chaos
the spaciousness between the clutter
we're never really without;
curious and trembling
a wandering mind thinking too hard
guilt-laden
sopping with uncertainty
a carousel.

Solitary Space

Deep within there's a land of contemplation
limitless exploration
an archive of perception
a folder full of stories
awaiting realization

Last night I danced. Do you know the song Vienna by Billy Joel? I danced to that. That song reminds me so much of myself and my crazily rushed and impatient yet ambitious attitude.

"Slow down you crazy child, you're so ambitious for a juvenile but then if you're so smart, tell me why are you still so afraid?"

I am so many things. I'm an enthusiastic lover of life as well as a bottle of emotion, restlessness and worry. I think a lot. It felt so good to just let go and frolic about my own little world of free form flow and a mind full of nothing but the sound orchestrating my bones. I evaporate into a mist of healing when I'm in my solitary space. I threw my legs up into Viparita Karani and listened to the pleasant hum of Dallas Green's acoustic soul.

"Slow down you crazy child and take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while. It's alright, you can afford to lose a day or two."