Tag: poetry workshop

Soul Sunday

Good morning to my wonderful readers and friends! My regular readers know that Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. Poetry is alluring. It’s not always candid and direct. I think that you bring more of your own story and perspectives and thus, you often find deeper meaning and emotional movement in poetry, than any other kind of written communication. (Remember, most musical lyrics are actually poems.) Anyway, here is my poem for the day. Please write a poem and share it in my Comments section. This is a safe and loving place to share and to commune.

Our Christmas Tree

Each ornament tells a story, as it dances on the tree,

Trips taken, milestones made, loved ones longed for,

Babies born, pads purchased, merry memories, pets’ portraits,

Favors from friends, cherished children’s crafts, soiree souvenirs,

Team tokens, silly Santas, intriguing impulse-buys.

The tree is kind of messy. It won’t make a magazine spread,

Or an Instagram influencer’s grandstand play,

But it tells the meandering story of the fertile life of a family,

Like no sterile showpiece ever could.

The tree is alive with love, dangling from its branches,

And that makes it, breathtakingly beautiful,

The tree’s teeming tokens make it altogether, one-of-a-kind.

For each ornament tells a story, as it dances on the tree.

Our Christmas Tree is the bookmark of our ongoing epic adventures.

What new ornaments, will the new year bring, to next year’s tree?

I can’t wait to see. Ornaments are wonderful story-tellers.

Soul Sunday

Good morning, dear friends and readers. On Sundays, I devote this blog to poetry. I either write a poem, or I share a poem, and I strongly encourage you to share your poems in my Comments section. Poems have a way of broadening thought and deepening emotion, like no other form of writing can do. Today, I share two poems written by other people. The first poem, “Cranky Old Man”, is attributed to an Australian man, named David Griffith. David was living in a nursing home and this poem was found by his nurses, in his things, after he died. It has since been shared widely around the world. Thank you, to my dear friend, who shared it with me this week. The second poem, I found on Twitter. I am at the age when a lot of people who I know, are on their second marriages, and I thought that the poem was sweet and romantic and hopeful, for those relationships, especially. Have a restful, rejuvenating, reinvigorating, and restorative end of your weekend, as we enter into the holiday season. See you, tomorrow, my dear friends and readers.

cranky-old-man-poem.png (490×885) | Old man quotes, Memories quotes, Poems

Soul Sunday

Good morning, dear friends and readers! My regular readers know that Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. I either write a poem or I share a poem that has moved me, written by someone else. I consider this spot to be a little informal poetry workshop café. You have your coffee, I have mine. I share my poem, I hope that you feel comfortable to share yours in my Comments section. Poetry is rule-less, lawless, interesting and fun. I was feeling kind of quirky when I wrote the poem below. That’s what I like about poetry. It lets the moods flow, without explanations or apologies.

Longfellow Light

There was a little girl, who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead,

And when she was good, she was very, very good

(Good to other people, they liked her being very good,

Very, very good at people pleasing, she was.)

And when she was bad, she was horrid.

(This is usually when she became completely fed-up with everyone else,

and their shit, and she then had a tendency to lose her own shit.

And by then, she was horrid. She became absolutely horrid.

Very horrid, really. Very horrid states it mildly.

Honestly, it wasn’t good for her, or for anyone else – it was just horrid.)

Then, one very fine day, the little girl got a brush,

And in a wee blink (and a lot of prayer and therapy),

She turned that little glossy curl,

That one little curl in the middle of her forehead,

Into her beautiful third eye, which was gorgeously

highlighted by very, very long, lovely, curly eyelashes.

And then, when the little girl was being very, very good,

she remembered to be good to herself, too. Very good.

And so when she was good, she was very, very good.

(Good to herself and good to others – very.)

And when she was bad,

She just had a little bit of fun.

And nobody got hurt.

In fact, it wasn’t all that horrid, at all.

And in the end, she just ended up just being,

very, very, very, very, very much

Herself.

Soul Sunday

Good morning, friends and readers. I’m away from home, in a spot of lovely nature. The peace and calm and mystery of it all, is so regulating. Nature is God’s form of a reset button. Sundays are devoted to poetry at Adulting – Second Half. Sometimes I write a poem, and sometimes I borrow one. Today I share a borrowed poem by a brilliant writer, Rudyard Kipling. Please share your own poems in my Comments section. May you all feel restored and reset and revitalized by the end of this lovely Sunday. Do whatever you need to do, to get to the place of reset wellness.

The Way through the Woods

by Rudyard Kipling



THEY shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods.
But there is no road through the woods.

Soul Sunday

Good morning, my beloved friends and readers. My regular readers know that Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. Please write a poem today. I would love it if you would share your poem in my Comments section, but even if you just share it with yourself, you will feel such movement and release in your heart. Poetry is the song of the soul. Here is my poem for today:

The White Rose

I noticed you huddled on the shores.

We had anchored the boat and we were quietly floating,

So softly, it was like we had melted into the rhythm,

Of the steady wind and lapping waves and passing clouds.

He was fishing, my own thoughts were meandering,

As I sat silently and deliberately,

Watching all of you as an uninvited and un-noticed observer.

You embraced each other.

Some of you kept your heads hung,

Too heavy to lift,

From your hurting hearts.

Some of you seemed eager to leave,

Uncomfortable with the feelings, brimming in the moment.

Yet others were obviously lingering,

Feet solidly sunk into the slushy sand,

Not wanting to say good-bye.

After a while, the shore was emptied and slowly flowing to the boat,

Came a parade of beautiful, brightly colored roses.

Celebrations of a life, colorful collaborations,

Streaming easily on the surface of the lapping water.

I picked up a white rose that floated right next to the boat.

It felt uncomfortable, like perhaps a desecration.

But I wanted to feel the essence of, and to honor the soul,

That had so easily come my way, inviting me into the ceremony.

I thanked you for the love which you had so obviously,

Created and shared and multiplied, into this world.

You were clearly missed. You were totally loved.

Next, I slowly and deliberately, placed each white petal,

Back into the sea. One by one, by one, by one. . . .

Tears for a beautiful life that merged with the water,

And softly floated towards the light of the horizon.

Soul Sunday

Good morning friends and readers. Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. On Sundays, I either write a poem or I share someone else’s poem and I would love to see some of your poems, too. I consider this spot to be a Doodle book, a poetry workshop where we just let the words and the emotions spill on the page, as they care to land. Here is my poem for the day:

Two Words is All

There is a reason why the pen is mightier than the sword.

The pen has a penchant for words,

While the sword just clumsily goes for blood.

Remember there are two words that are more powerful than anything.

The best prayer, the best spell, the best energy director in the world,

is found in two words. Get your most elegant weapon,

And write this phrase down:

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Carry these words with you in your sacred sheath, and wield them often.

Direct them towards all of the bounties and all of the blessings,

Which create the arrangement of your every day life.

And then feel your energy and your power,

Soar to heights that you didn’t know were possible.

It really is that simple.

Two words: Thank you.

Use the incantation often and always and sincerely,

And feel, and soak, and marinate in their immense power,

And then submerge in the transformation of your own lasting peace.

Soul Sunday

Good morning, friends and readers. My regular readers know that Sundays are devoted to poetry. I either write a poem or share a poem by a different author and I ask you to do the same, in my Comments section. Visualize this space as a very peaceful (and socially distanced) hip café, where we have gathered together to do a poetry workshop, a free-for-all of release. Our souls are thanking us for this experience. Our spirits like to release themselves without the rigidity and the structure and the tattered stories that are so much a part of our regular lives. My poem for today (by me):

An Autumn Morning

Why do I love this morning so?

Rested body, last night’s sound sleep, deeply resonating.

Trickling, comfortably purring pond water,

background music as I write.

Sunshine illuminating the good side of the yard.

Dogs playing joyfully, underneath a perfectly constructed spider’s web,

(Note to self: I will leave that industrious little one’s masterpiece untouched).

As the day melds on into the week, and then into weeks,

I must listen to my inner voice,

the quiet voice which will ask me to bring myself back to this very moment.

How do I store this moment in an easily accessible memory bank?

A picture, a video, not even a gallery masterpiece will do this moment justice,

to the overall calming (yet at the same time equally energizing) sensation,

which this tranquil morning has gifted to me.

Perhaps if I bathe in the moment, lather in every sensation.

The residue of right now, won’t wash away and it will stay for keeps,

Like a layer of protection, a security blanket,

To soften any blows that may come my way,

when I inevitably forget that life can be, and often is,

as peaceful as a beautiful, softly decaying Autumn morn.

Soul Sunday

Hi friends. My regular readers know that Sunday is devoted to poetry. On Sundays, I write a poem or a share a poem written by another poet. I strongly encourage you to share your poems in my Comments section. I will never allow negative comments. I consider Sundays to be a safe, creative, full of release, poetry workshop here at Adulting – Second Half. Poetry is the song of the soul. Today I am sharing a poem written by Louise Glück, our a Pulitzer prize winning poet, who recently won the 2020 Nobel Prize for Literature. This poem is from her acclaimed book of poetry, AVERNO.

Soul Sunday

Good morning, my treasured readers. Regular readers know that I devote Sundays to poetry. I either write a poem or a share a poem written by someone else. Today’s poem has been written by me, this morning. I strongly encourage you to write a poem today (it’s cathartic) and if you would like, please share it in my Comments section. My blog is a safe and loving space, I assure you. Have a lovely Sunday.

The Turtle

Last night’s dream was so magical and intriguing.

It involved an ancient home which had been restored to greatness.

Most every room was purely white, marbled marble,

And you had to take a ride to view the house’s mysterious interiors,

Filled with towering towers and statuesque stairways,

But my favorite part of the ride is when I got to you,

the part which everyone seemed to know that I would love.

The whiteness stopped and there was a huge, golden, flowing pond.

And your enormous, moss covered shell rose to the surface.

It was breathtaking to see the largest turtle I have ever seen, anywhere.

I wasn’t afraid. I was in awe. You were incredible. You were shockingly amazing.

I don’t often remember my dreams, so this morning, it felt important

And necessary to understand your meaning to me,

The Dream Dictionary, told me this:

“Seeing a giant turtle, in your dream is a good sign, denoting that, you are protected by your friends and family and thus, no need to get worried about anything in life.”

“Thank you for the reminder, gorgeous turtle,” I whispered, with a sheepish smile.

“Thank yourself. Your dreams come from you.” you replied. “And so do I.”

And then, you plunged down to the deepest depths again,

Leaving the surface of my mind in a still and tranquil state,

As I began another day, assured and hopeful and loved and protected,

Knowing that my shell of loved ones, always keeps me safeguarded and secure.

Soul Sunday

Good morning. Welcome to Soul Sunday. On Sundays, I dedicate the blog to poetry. I either write a poem or I share someone else’s poem and I strongly encourage, you, my readers, to share your poems in my Comments section. This is a poetry workshop, a loving, virtual poetry reading, café. There is no judgment here, just a free flow of words, and thoughts and ideas and feelings. Today the Poetry Muse has not landed on my nose, or in my heart, so I am going to share another poem by Gwen Frostic, from her beautiful wood block printed book, A Walk With Me. This is the last poem of the last page of this magical, blissful book:

. . . and so . . . . there has ever been

beauty in a feather

drifting in the wind

beauty in the lichens

growing on a rock

beauty in the star dust

shining in the sun

beauty in the grasses

blowing in a breeze . . . . .

. . . . . . so . . . . .there will ever be . . . . . .

wondrous . . . simple . . . beauty

always here on earth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .