MY SIMPLE LIFE (1)

This blog has been a wonderful outlet for the random musings and unanticipated thought fragments that seem to perpetually traverse my mind. Through poetry I’ve found a method of examining and coping with emotional turmoil, that kept bottled up, eventually becomes rancid and toxic.

Without prattling on endlessly, I’ll share with you that several years ago I experienced a series of traumatic events severe enough to make rebuilding the life I had impossible.

Much of what I’d thought of as absolutely essential was irredeemable. At 44 years old I was faced with the terrifying prospect of finding a completely different way to live, something I wasn’t even certain was possible.

Being so fundamentally hurt, the first eighteen months were little more than a process of slow healing. I didn’t think about what came next during this time, because I wasn’t convinced there would be a next.

When I finally tried to pull myself together it was quickly apparent that too many pieces couldn’t be made to fit anymore. That was very sad since I’d had some of them most of my life, and didn’t want to see them go.

So, I was left with the question, who was I?…………………………………………………… (to be con’t)

 

Authors note: While I have no intention of abandoning poetry, I think it’s time to bring this blog more in alignment with it’s original mission statement, which is simply to help, and to do that it’s important to understand the circumstances of it’s creation.

 

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The Pagan Poem

Come,

Sit by the bright, bright fire,

Your eyes show all who look,

that you are tired,

What’s this?

You’re shivering with fear?

Know now that,

Naught pursues you here,

The dark forest where you felt alone,

Is to us a sacred grove,

The beasts that yowled and those that cried,

Announced to us that you’d arrived,

That clamor that the wild things made,

Was a welcome to you that they gave,

Freely enter the stone circle if you like,

None are barred except by choice,

Of judgement we will extend none,

Druids offer only love.

 

 

Lost Children of Science

To the lost Children of science,

sequestered in sterile labs,

untouched by solar rays,

toiling to decode the nature of life,

Beyond Your high walls,

each tree, each flower,

intone pheromone answers,

to all Your many questions,

in their silent language,

offering truths deeper,

than any that can be contained,

within a spoken word.

Sowing

Kneeling in the damp soil

dirty fingers gently make holes

for seeds.

Across the road

a construction crew builds

many houses.

Like me they sweat

mud-spattered and muscle sore

from the labor.

Like me they believe

what they do is right, is good

they are not evil men.

They began their work

in a copse of trees which had to be removed

allowing space for building.

Mine began

on a small, sandy patch of ground

where sparse grass grew.

They cut trees

dug stumps

preparing the land.

I spread depths

of mulch and  compost

preparing the land.

From the high seats

of diesel excavators

they waved hello.

My bare feet

damp and connected to the earth

I smile and wave back.

 

The Last Butterfly

Deep in a dark wood

cloaked from prying eyes

seven Druids with bowed heads

circled the last butterfly,

The seven prayers spoken

were older than old

in a language long silent

heard here and no more,

each of the seven

who stood vigil there

saw one last tiny wing-flutter

the enchantment was gone,

of the seven Druids

no more may be spoke

when the butterfly passed

each one became smoke