Soul Sunday

Good morning. Rabbit. Rabbit. Rabbit.

Fortune for the day“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” – Annie Dillard

Welcome to Sunday. May this first Sunday in March, be particularly calming, soothing, comforting, and re-setting. May this Sunday find you surrounded in such peaceful tranquility that you can’t imagine ever coming out of its trance of repose. Remember, when you make/allow/find yourself feeling good, you, in turn, uplift the entire world.

Readers, Sundays are dedicated to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. I strongly encourage you to share your beautiful souls in the form of poems in the Comments Section. My new friend and fellow writer, Walberto Campos, has written a strong, poignant poem about his father’s experience with Alzheimer’s disease. I will be publishing that one in the Comments section. Please read it, and please, too, publish your poems in the Comments section. The world can never have enough poetry. Your poems give others permission to share their souls, as well. In poetry, our souls are bared and veiled, all at the same time, which is why I think that we all find poetry so mystifying, yet gratifying. It is so easy to find our own experiences and emotions in almost any poem. Poems are powerful. Here’s my poem for today:

My Little Flower

My little flower grows in someone else’s garden.

Yet, perhaps by providence,

by a Source who loves us both,

I have been assigned to some of her care.

(and perhaps she has been entrusted with some of my care, too)

She is tiny and fragile, yet beautiful and radiant.

She keeps her glowing, purple bloom, reaching towards the sun,

Always. She chooses the sunny side. Always.

Always moving towards the sunshine.

On my designated day, I help to nourish her growth,

hopefully adding some woven strands to her tender roots,

her roots which have already kept her very strong,

through some rough winds and fearful storms.

She has good, solid roots because they fearlessly branch out,

to get her what she needs, to flourish and to blossom.

Every part of her being is fearlessly alive, and flowing, and growing.

She knows how to bloom, my little flower.

She inspires me. And so after carefully tending to her,

I go back to my own garden and everything blossoms,

all the more radiantly, all because of one tiny flower.

Image result for pictures of a violet

4 thoughts on “Soul Sunday”

  1. Here is the first part to Walberto Campos’ poem entitled, Oblivion:

    OBLIVION
    Sometimes it seems
    that I no longer think of anything;
    not even in my shadow,
    not even in the smoke of the endless dead ends,
    who laughed at me while running barefoot,
    receiving the cold memories of the stones.
    … (Not even in the bees
    chasing me down the dusty roads,
    making me pay for my pranks
    and sins of a child without a toy;
    or in the terrifying walls of misery
    that caught me and told me
    that I was doomed not to get out) …
    I just look away,
    towards the throbbing curtains
    of these lonely trails;
    of these labyrinths called paths,
    of these roofs so overcome by the mold,
    by the the moss,
    and by the cruel days of winter;
    where the owl’s owed look
    is my relentless dinner;
    as I walk, holding hands
    with this darkness that strips me
    of the beats of this dog
    that lies dying in my chest
    and that is slowly abandoning me;
    already tired of me …

    Today I wrote a million letters
    to the distant horizon,

  2. Oblivion, by Walberto Campos, continued:

    asking it to approach me;
    to come greet me
    with his most plausible stars that kiss him;
    while the night swallows mercilessly
    my cracked shadow,
    who has fallen asleep
    before the imposing presence
    of the fireflies.
    (… Oh fireflies that will light my way;
    so that I do not stumble upon earthly monsters
    that would devour me alive,
    before turning my back to them.
    What will I have done,
    to deserve your favor?)

    … But the palms of my hands
    are just a moor that laughs
    over and over on my face;
    this face without a soul
    that not even the mirror dares to copy,
    maybe because it fears that my numb spectrum
    will inhabit it forever,
    and expel without mercy,
    its frightening chimeras.

    It’s been a while since the night was coming
    towards these weak steps that I take.
    I’m tired now.
    I better go back.
    Someone is waiting for me …
    I want to say her name
    but I can’t find it in this round hole

  3. Oblivion, continued.

    that rests on my shoulders …
    But my lips have pronounced it millions of times …
    Maybe it will come later.
    I will turn my back.
    I’ll be back.
    Nothing happens.
    Nothing happens.
    Except that;
    the fumarole of that superb volcano
    steals stories from my dying survival.

    … (I promise before the unbeatable presence of those hills
    who speak to me with the dim light of their lanterns,
    that I will take advantage of this ephemeral opportunity).

    Now I walk
    I have run away;
    At least I think so.
    My thoughts leave me,
    my words too.
    Everything is silence;
    everything is empty.
    The muted stones seem to talk to me this time;
    and I think I understand what they say.
    They have left me the last memory,
    they know they will fall on me;
    they laugh for the last time,
    they make fun of my tired feet;
    of my battered body;
    but I don’t answer anything,

  4. I can’t find the words
    I better return,
    I will turn my back to them
    Yes, now;
    I promise.
    I’m leaving.
    My shadow will come back later.

    Walberto Campos

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