Solar Plexus

Is it fear? Anger? Mistrust?

Or worry, perhaps?

Any higher and I’d say

sadness, but here it rests

this feeling just below my

chest.

It rests upon the solar plexus.

Nagging, gnawing

curling in upon itself

hiding, burrowing beneath

skin and bone and muscle.

I acknowledge its presence,

give it its due and

yet…I can’t seem to release it;

it weighs me down,

wears me down,

until I, too, want to

curl in upon myself.

Huddled and broken

bent in half. Wondering

if I wait long enough

will this feeling merely pass?

 

 

 

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The Low and Heavy

My spirit is sitting low and heavy this morning

like fog resting low upon the river

hesitating to rise in greeting of the dawn.

in a state of suspension. limbo. stasis.

The mist that snakes hovering just above forest flora.

It rests within my belly

feeling damp and clingy.

Seeking warmer currents

this little balloon is in need of helium

a little sunlight peeking through the clouds.

For now, I’m stuck down in the low and heavy

a cloud fallen from the sky just lying upon the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Second Hand

I don’t care if all my life

every piece of furniture I own is

a hand

me

down.

I don’t mind thrift shop clothes.

I have never wanted a fancy car

just one that could get me

from point A

to

Point B

or maybe a truck

to haul home used furniture

and such. I am

function over form,

comfort over fashion,

and a whole lot of not

color coordinated towels.

I’m old quilted blankets

made with loving hands

from everyday scraps;

recognizing past versions of myself

in these puzzle pieces.

I am stone hedgerows

circling the fields

strong hands

fashioning the land.

Generations gone

but living still

coursing through my veins,

my values,

the very substance of my bones

– it all comes second hand.

 

 

 

Busy Hands

(I haven’t written much lately, I know, but my creativity has had other pursuits.)

Pull the yarn taut, push through

push through,

then loop around, and pull back.

Now again.

And again.

Until the chain stretches far and wide –

on the surface, my hands are busy

beneath, my mind is in overdrive

pull taut, push, loop, pull back

a rhythm that soothes in repetitions

I don’t make art the art makes me

Keep my hands busy as my mind

weaves stories, processes emotion,

daydreams in color

between my fingers slip coarse yet soft

strands. lost in thought.

pull taut, push, loop, pull back

I give my creation strength

with each passing row.

My hands are strong

made to create

weaving patterns from the clouds

my hands toil while my mind

tells stories, paints pictures, sings songs

pull taut, push, loop, pull back

my hands

pull taut, push, loop, pull back

free my mind with their

rhythmic pantomime

let the yarn slip through my fingers

pull taut, push, loop, pull back

let the thoughts slip through my fingers

pull taut, push, loop, pull back

I create.

 

And All Is Well

And all is well between you and I;

what rights and wrongs may have existed

have passed beneath our bridge.

One last stroll upon these grounds together

no eye traces o’er our steps, nor backward glance.

In softest slumber I seek out

eternity, riding the waves

slowly slipping below the horizon.

No longer bobbing and churning beneath the surface

letting go and floating freely – without fear.

No more questions of next steps,

leaping into the great beyond. What lies

ahead is not of this world and I must go ahead

so light a candle to guide me on my way.

So softly on this pillow rests my mind

sinking into the sheets of oblivion

let nature take what nature is owed

it is not much, but freely returned from whence it came.

And all is well between you and I.

 

 

Adolescence

The things that are said

between these four walls

ring with the audacity of youth.

Trying on the crude, the rude, the fool,

the lost and no one understands me

attitudes.

Teenagers.

They know it all and they

know nothing at all and can’t

tell the difference. Rational

thought and the irrational

pull of feelings and hormones

create the beauty of divine and flawed

interactions among them.

Rush to decision to action

but then retrospect is

for the older and wiser.

Buying time until face to face with

maturity knocking down their door.

They must answer and enter upon the

threshold of adulthood.

 

It Fits Me

Poetry is quick like anger, slow like sadness, and

lingering like grief.

It flickers and flares

at intervals. It can be traced like emotions

highs and lows. Pour out

or be pushed forward

into existence.

Tripping and

halting.

This form, it fits me in all my sizes; conforms to my angles

and curves like a second skin.

It holds me –

forming sinew and bone,

calluses, and tender places like the

spot just behind and below the ear

when I hear it whisper like a lover,

come. Come to me in darkness; in light

fill me up to overflowing, spilling

upon the shadows where I’ve trod.

Hold candle to despair and show

the path ensnared with vines and brambles

slashing forth and urging onward.

It tells me, “don’t give up.”

Book Recommendation

Recently, I’ve begun reading Wired to Create: Unraveling the Mysteries of the Creative MindI’m not finished reading by a long shot, so this isn’t a review, but I would definitely recommend it to anyone who enjoys learning about creativity and what makes us creatives tick.

I am finding it fascinating to learn about other artists’ process and inspiration; my gears have begun to turn as I read in small doses. I’m not the book-devouring voracious reader I once was, unfortunately, but that doesn’t mean I don’t read. I miss being so absorbed in a book that time would simply pass me by without even a nod or a wave of acknowledgement.

Anyway, I hope if you pick up the book that you enjoy it as much as I am.

The Mundane

Waking late

alarm ringing, once, twice, three times

I’m up. I’m up. (5:45 a.m.)

Feed the cats.

Coffee and a bagel;

coffee and toast; it’s all the same.

Drive to work

sun over trees

fog or drifting snow

pasture and cornfield

it’d make a nice painting or

photograph.

Day in and day out

grade, lecture, grade.

Thousands upon thousands of

tiny interactions slipping through my

careful hands; hopeful of changing the course of

history.

Drive home repeating both sides

of the conversation, argument

thinking of wiser things or

lesser things I could have said.

Worrying it over, mulling,

fermenting in my mind.

Home, cats’ greeting,

couch beckoning;

I sit.

Husband,

dinner,

reading, television

interrupting to tell me

news. Crochet, paint, carve and sand

solace in artistic endeavors.

To bed, to sleep, to dream. (11:00 p.m.)