Soul Sunday

Hi friends. As my regular readers know, Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. On Sundays, I share a poem that I have written or someone else has written. Please share your poems in the Comments section. This is a sacred space for us to share the words which seep from the deepest corners of our hearts.

“Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.” — Paul Engle

Here is my poem that I wrote for today:

THE PURPOSE OF WELLS

Once there was a woman who was just walking along,

and she unexpectedly fell into a deep, dark, pitted well.

This had happened before in her journeys,

But somehow she always managed to forget

how scary, and dark, and lonely, and helpless she felt,

at the bottom of her cavernous well.

At first, she panicked. She screamed and she wailed,

and she tried angrily to claw her way out of the well,

but the clawing only gave her more injuries, and exhaustion,

And made her feel weaker than she already was.

More rocks and debris fell on to her, as she mightily struggled,

And the jagged stones opened ancient, unhealed wounds,

And these fresh, new gashes bled out all of her strength.

And she was filled with fear and despair.

She fell dejectedly to the bottom of her well and she whimpered.

It started raining. It was pouring and storming and bleak.

And those who love her, and those whom she loves and adores,

Called to her, from afar, from the top of the deep, deep well,

Promising to stay with her and to help her.

But, she intuitively understood that this rescue,

Would be something that mostly,

She would have to do for herself.

She also knew that some of her own deep loves,

Had fallen into their own deep wells, at the same time,

And she panicked and she flailed,

And she tried to gain control,

of everyone and of everything.

Mostly, she wanted to save all of those loved ones,

She wanted to pull them out of their own frightening wells,

Even more than she cared to escape her own lonely cell,

But there was really nothing she could do,

At the bottom of her own caged pit.

The woman stewed in fear, and in anxiety and in sadness and in despair.

But then . . . . when she got really quiet, she listened and she heard.

“Rest”, someone whispered, adding a hint of light into the darkness.

“Let’s just rest. Let’s just let it be.”

“Surrender. Trust. Let it go.”

And the woman felt the words swirling and beating into her heart,

The words were coming from someone sitting right next to her,

Someone peaceful and kind, holding the woman’s hand, assuredly.

It was her beautiful, serene, shining Guardian, adding light into the darkness.

“There is a purpose for your well.”

“There is a purpose for all wells,”

her Guardian soothed, and the glorious spirit held the frightened woman,

Enveloping her in soft, downy, yet mighty wings.

“Everyone else’s Guardians are with them right now, too.”

And she beckoned for the woman to look upwards.

And the woman looked up at the top of her well,

And she saw everyone whom she loved being held by their Guardians.

There was a beautiful, shining, overwhelmingly bounteous army of Guardians,

Surrounding and shielding and protecting everyone she loves,

Too many Guardians to count, forming a unified glorious light,

A light that was so luminous that it almost hurt the woman’s eyes to see it,

And then at that precise moment, the woman clearly understood,

That even people who had fallen into other deep, dark, isolating wells,

Were also being held and and were also being soothed,

And were also being loved into their own hallowed healing,

by their own sacred Guardians,

Hurting people were being held and nestled,

In their own cozy, safe, private holes of protection,

By their own fearless, loving Guardians,

Each Guardian carefully nestling their charges to wholeness, once again.

These Guardians had been assigned to their people by the Eternal One,

And then the woman realized in perfect awe, that the Guardians,

Had never left any of their people, ever at all.

And the woman relaxed into this peaceful, calming Knowing

And she slept. And she rested. And she trusted. And she let it all go.

And she healed.

And when the woman woke, after what felt like an eternity of sleep,

she felt light, and she felt energized and right before her

Stood a beautiful, solid, ornate stairway, that was easy for her to climb.

And she came back up from her deepest, darkest depths,

and she rubbed her eyes and she looked around,

and she remembered how utterly beautiful it is,

At the safe, solid landing at the everlasting top of the well.

Everything she felt and everything that she saw,

Seemed even more miraculously lovely than it ever had before.

And as she held her Guardian’s hand, she thought that perhaps,

this is what her Guardian meant.

Perhaps it is this renewal,

Perhaps it is this constant rebirth of hope,

Perhaps it is this process that happens,

in the hidden, wrapped cocoons before any crucial changes,

That is the entire purpose of falling into,

and then later, being able to climb out of,

the inky, dark, fearsome wells along our paths.

And then, stepping on to the beautiful, soft landing, at the the top of the well,

the woman took fresh, assured, confident steps forward,

Into the lightness of a beautiful, sun-filled day.

She was filled with a knowing that she is always, always surrounded and bathed,

In endless, bottomless, all encompassing Light and Love,

Even when she temporarily falls into the scattered, very deep wells,

and sometimes forgets about the eternal, impenetrable Beauty and Light,

The light which forms the everlasting well-spring,

Which nourishes and replenishes and heals every single soul,

The woman is reminded that the Light has never left her, nor will ever leave her,

Along the varied pathways and the thrilling adventures,

which make up the very essence of living one glorious human life.

We are not alone. We are never alone. We can walk in peace.

This I know.

Soul Sunday

Hello friends. I hope that this Sunday finds you in a state of peace. Sundays are reserved for the songs of the Soul, here at Adulting – Second Half. Sundays are devoted to poetry. Please share your poems in my Comments section. This is a “no judgment” zone. This is a safe place for release in the form of the written word. Here is my poem for today:

I Hear You

I’m listening, Body.

You are the one who always gets ignored.

The Middle Child, mediator of the Mind and the Soul.

You don’t have the voice, or the emotion of your siblings,

But you house the heart.

You make possible the breath.

You work overtime, trying to keep everyone and everything in balance.

You subtly ask for care, but your subtly is so easy to ignore,

Until your whispers turn to cries.

Don’t let my cries, turn to screams, you say.

I’m listening, Body.

Today, I care for you.

You are the precious vehicle for my travels in life,

And for the acuity of my Mind,

And for the sensories of my Soul.

Today, I honor you and I respect you,

For everything that you give, to the whole of me.

Soul Sunday

Hi! Sending love to all of my readers and friends. For new readers, Sundays are devoted to poetry. On Sunday, I shared a poem which I have written, or a poem written by a poet that has moved me, often to my core. I ask you to share your poems in my Comments section. Poetry is the bared soul. Poetry is about as real as it gets, and that is why it typically pulls at our strings, even the strings we didn’t know that we have which are daintily and hungrily, hanging from our hearts.

Today’s poem is a rough one. It doesn’t necessarily go with my typical peaceful, glowy, hopeful-toned poems, which I typically post. This poem was not written by me. It was written by Charles Bukowski, who was known to write about the darker and edgier sides of life, in a “nothing left out”, raw, “say it like it is” style. Still, this poem deeply, and completely spoke to me. It took me most of my life to get to this point, which the speaker of the poem is talking about. It took me almost all of my life to lose all of the pretensions, and the suppositions, and the fears and the shames, and “the rules”, and “the shoulds” to just put it all out there. “I had to lose it all, to gain myself,” as the saying the goes.

Friends, whatever your passions are, whatever your craft is, whatever burns the way to the same found path in your life, no matter how much you try to veer from it, that is your purpose. It doesn’t have to mean anything, it doesn’t have to give you fame or attention or money, or even have to be understood by anybody else. That passion, that fire that just won’t be put out, was put inside of you for a reason, so honor it, follow it, and just do it. We don’t have the views that God has, but it is God/Universe/Spirit who is weaving and has already woven what is, and what will always be. The big picture of Love and Life is the beautiful woven tapestry which is already made and perfected, in all of its glory. The sparks which we have inside of each of us, which incline us to do and to be, are our own individual parts, in the shimmering, perfect creation. Don’t live a formula. Live that which bursts forth from you. Live for what resonates within you. Don’t question it. Don’t judge it. Just know it. That which bubbles inside of you, that which is just dying to get out into living motion, is your true essence. That is your real beauty. That is your gift, your spark, the much needed, and co-created addition to the perfect, eternal tapestry of Life. Do what you can do, to take off all of the covers and shades and boxes, and just let that light inside of you, shine, in all of its glory. You, and the world, will be blessed for your actions. And the true tapestry will be closer to being revealed. Remember, You Shine. (and that is an order)

so you want to be a writer?

Charles Bukowski – 1920-1994

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Soul Sunday

Good morning, my beautiful friends and readers. Thank you for coming by. I hope that today finds you to be in a peaceful, restorative place. New readers (and new subscribers – thank you, peek-a-boo, I see all of you and I appreciate you so much!), Sundays are poetry workshop days, here at Adulting- Second Half. Please write a poem today. You don’t have to share it with anyone if you don’t want to, but I would love to see your poetry in my Comments section. I consider poetry to be a rule-less purge of words. Poetry is the most free form of communication. It is seductive, mysterious, alluring, and pure, all at the same time. Give yourself the gift of a poem today. Just spill it out. You might happily surprise yourself, with what comes out of your heart, in word form. At the very least, you will feel relieved and more clear. Here’s my poem for today:

For Now

Sometimes I feel the onus to save the world,

But the only sharp tool that I have,

That I can use with any proficiency or skill,

Is my pen.

So I pick up my only tool,

And I let what is inside of me,

Flow out of me, through it.

Blindly, recklessly, un-calculated, and fervent,

the words topple out, faster than I can write.

And then, in an awakening, awareness moment,

I realize that I cannot possibly save the world,

No one really can.

But in utilizing my tool,

my pen, the way shower of my words,

I can save myself.

And that is enough,

For now.

Soul Sunday

Good morning friends and readers. I hope that this post finds you in a peaceful place. Sundays, are a free flow of words in poetry. Sundays are poetry workshop days at Adulting – Second Half. I write a poem or I procure a poem from one of my readings, written by someone else. I strongly encourage you to add your poems to my Comments section. This is a no judgment zone. This is just a place to freely express what sits on your heart. Have a restful, rejuvenating day! Here is my poem I wrote for today. I am sending lots of love to you out there. I hope that you can feel it and that you can shelter in the cocoon of Love, at least for today.

What Lies on My Heart

I’m so scared, I want to stay holed up in a ball

In the safest confines of my home.

I’m so bored, I want to jump in my car, and take it,

To go to wherever my boldest imagination,

Finds an intriguing dot on a map, and then some more.

I don’t want to get ill and more so, I don’t want to be the cause

Of anyone’s pain nor terrible, breathless demise.

But you can’t live a joyous life, without a dash of risk.

But, but, but . . . . . . . . back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back

And forth . . . . . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nobody talks about their “daily doings” anymore.

Because Everyone has become judge and juror.

Nobody wants to be “cancelled,” and therefore Everyone is “cancelled”.

Cancelled from expressing our true authentic selves.

But how do you learn from what can’t be acknowledged nor revealed?

It’s lonely when you can’t be real.

And those who are still expressing, tend to take it too far.

They have absorbed all of the energy of the unsaid,

And all of the energy of the unfelt,

And it explodes and it bursts and it erupts out of them,

Too forcefully.

And the meaning is lost in the angry noise.

And the rest of us stay safely quiet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My mind whirls around in jumbled circles, these days.

Everything is a decision, a weighing of chance.

Everything, Every Single Day.

Everything.

Every. Single. Day.

Again and again.

It’s exhausting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But my heart does tell me that everything is going to be okay.

My heart tells me that everything is okay.

My heart says for me, to just be quiet, and to be still.

Be still and know that I am.

Be still. Know.

I am.

And then I take a deep breath and I’m peaceful again.

Soul Sunday

Hi readers! Sunday is devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. I consider Sundays to be a word play workshop in which you just start writing the words and get delighted or confused or fascinated, by where they take you. Please add your poetry to my Comments section. Here is my poem for today:

Last Night’s Storm

Sometimes storms brew in the far distance,

Where they seem exciting and thrilling and intriguing.

They are a fireworks show, without the terror of proximity.

But other times, storms sit right over top of you,

In the ultimate power play, daring you to breathe normally.

Like a indignant bully, sitting hard on your chest.

Last night contained one of those hair’s breadth storms,

That had me seriously wondering about my fate.

Would I make it to see the bright, beautiful morning,

Or would my lover and I turn into small flecks of charred ruin?

Wrapped up in each other’s arms, shielding and comforting each other,

From the anger and rage which nature sometimes righteously inflicts.

Sometimes storms brew in the far distance,

But sometimes storms choose to confront you,

With their awe striking power, and random, “nothing personal” blows,

In order to shake you to your very core, just because they can.

Soul Sunday

I slept so well last night. I always do, when it is the six members of my immediate family, safe under one roof. My eldest son made it back for a visit for the first time since Christmas. We had previous visits planned, but those got delayed, of course, due to the coronavirus. Right now, we are all ecstatic. No one showed his excitement and joy for our son’s return more, than did our Labrador retriever, Ralphie. Ralphie “hugged” our son several times, covered him with slobbery kisses, brought him every toy that he owns, and Ralphie’s tail was going on “high speed” for what seemed like hours, well into the night. Ralphie perfectly portrayed, in physical motion, what all the rest of us were feeling in our hearts. I will never wonder why we love dogs.

New readers, Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. Typically I share I poem which I have written or I share a poem which someone else has written that has touched me. Since, I am eager to get back to the breakfast table, in order to continue to catch up with my son, I am going to share my favorite poem by Rudyard Kipling. It seems like an apropos choice for today. Friends, please add your poetry to the Comments section. The world always needs poetry, especially these days.

“If” by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Soul Sunday

Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. I either write a poem or I share a poem that has touched me. Today is a sharing day. Please share your poems in the Comments section, in the spirit of sharing. There is no judging here – just sharing our hearts.

About a month ago, my uncle passed. He was a very accomplished and enthusiastic pilot, flying both airplanes and helicopters, and teaching many others to fly, as well. On his memorial card, my cousin chose this beautiful, poignant and apropos poem to honor her father. This is the back story of this moving poem:

“The sonnet above was sent to his parents written on the back of a letter which said, “I am enclosing a verse I wrote the other day. It started at 30,000 feet, and was finished soon after I landed.” He also wrote of his course ending soon and of his then going on operations, and added, “I think we are very lucky as we shall just be in time for the autumn blitzes(which are certain to come).” (Air Force Historical Support Division)

The poem was written by a Royal Canadian Air Force officer named John G. Magee on September 3, 1941. He was killed, about three months later, during a routine training mission, on December 11, 1941. Here is his beautiful poem:

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds,-and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of-wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air….
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor ever eagle flew-
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God

Soul Sunday

I am heading out on an early morning boating excursion. My regular readers know that Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. I’m barely awake. My poem will arrive on the site later today, when the fog clears from my mind. In the meantime, please share your poems in my Comments section. And come back for my poem, later in the day, as you are slowly unwinding from the weekend. I’m sorry for the delay. Love, peace and health.

****Okay, it’s about 3:15 pm here in Florida today. Boating was cut a little short due to storms. If you typically find storms disturbing, while you are resting on your couch, in your safe, warm, snug home, I can assure you that watching lightning strike, while you are floating around in a boat (which is really just a teeny little dry hole, in a vast expanse of water), takes storm watching (and the uncontrollable shaking that comes from being frightened ) to a whole new level. Nonetheless, we got out safely. This 2020 year does not need, nor does it require, any more over the top excitement for us, nor for anybody else!!

Here’s my Soul Sunday poem, as promised. Where are yours poems???

Chin Up Buttercup

Chin Up Buttercup, stop lamenting on the bad news – virus outbreaks, breathless black men, toppled statues, death and sadness, puppy potty training going nowhere but wet, helplessness in a heap of overwhelming pile of unrest, pining away for seeing loved ones, arguments from too much togetherness, exhaustion from wondering where does this all lead . . . .

Where does this all lead? And what part do I play in it all? Am I doing everything I can?

Chin Up Buttercup, start focusing on the good news – vaccines in the works, healthy social change happening/long in coming, life and hope, happiness is a warm puppy snuggled in your arms, a greater Source to hand the pile of problems over to fix, amazing technology to keep loved ones close by, when you have people to argue with, all that really means is that you are not alone and you are all learning the beautiful virtues of patience and understanding, energy from curiosity that where this all leads will be truly . . . . .

WONDERFUL.

Chin Up Buttercup.

Everything’s going to be okay.

Soul Sunday

My soul is a little quiet this Sunday morning. My soul was caught up in a tsunami of emotion and a firestorm of thoughts, pulsing through my mind, most of this week. My soul is trying to rest in a body that’s holding a lot of tension – a body that has had no other choice than to be the rigid container of the relentless tsunamis and the chaotic firestorms, which felt like they would never end. My soul is not looking to reach out today, but more so, to settle down, within, to still the waters and to get back to the peace that lies below all storms and fires. Always.

The poem below by Carl Sandberg moves me. Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. Please share a poem that moves you, whether you are the author or not. Poetry is salve for the soul. Writing poems and reading poems are release valves, to whatever needs to be let go.

“I Love You” by Carl Sandberg

I love you for what you are, but I love you yet more for what you are going to be.
I love you not so much for your realities as for your ideals. I pray for your desires that they may be great, rather than for your satisfactions, which may be so hazardously little.
A satisfied flower is one whose petals are about to fall. The most beautiful rose is one hardly more than a bud wherein the pangs and ecstasies of desire are working for a larger and finer growth. Not always shall you be what you are now. You are going forward toward something great. I am on the way with you and therefore I love you.