Soul Sunday

My 10 minute social media overview for the day:

Virus, virus statistics, ageism, politics, Hollywood, rants about this, rants about that, strange attempts at humor, question of the day: Are we all mentally ill?

That’s when I needed a shift in direction and started looking for poems about “stillness.” I don’t have the rhyme in me today. But this poem, which I found on my search, is perfect. It says it, just the way I feel it. That’s what poetry does, right? “It says it, the way we feel it.” Write a poem today. Say it how you feel it. It’s that simple. Poetry is emotion in word form.

Silence Stillness by Philo Yan - Silence Stillness Poem

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Soul Sunday

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Good morning. Sundays are devoted to poetry on the blog. (and believe it or not, you like poetry. Soul Sunday is a popular day on the blog. “Shakespeare’s a poet and doesn’t know it.” 😉 ) Today, let yourself live from your heart and from your soul. Give your analyzing mind a break. It’s Sunday. Follow your heart today. See where it leads you. A poem is a good way to start this. Here is my poem for the day:

“Amalgamation”

If I could take a gift from each of my decades,

to carry me into this new year of my life,

I would take the determined tree climbing of my childhood,

the breezy presumption of health and beauty of my twenties,

the wild rebelliousness and pride and confidence of my thirties,

the rugged, steely, determined resilience of my forties,

And I would dose all of these attributes with care and love,

And transform all of them into the best version of me yet.

An amazing amalgamation of a life experienced openly from the heart.

Soul Sunday

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Good morning! We have made it through another round of “the holiday season.” Whether it was wonderful, or it was weathered, or it was something in between, it is done. Fini. On to our hopes and to our dreams for the upcoming year!

Sundays on the blog are devoted to poetry. I consider Sundays to be a poetry workshop of sorts. I get up the nerve to write a poem (most of the time) and I bravely and vulnerably share it on my blog, and I strongly encourage you to do the same. My husband and one of my friends both purchased adult coloring books for me this Christmas, and I was fascinated at just how relaxing coloring really is for the soul. Writing poetry is much the same. Try it, you’ll like it. Here is my poem for the day:

“Blueprints”

my favorite relationships were never on purpose

my favorite relationships were never rigidly defined

by a stiff tome of archaic rules and regs and decrees

my favorite relationships can best be described as random,

they are as organic as scattered seeds, tossed in the wind

who happened to find themselves in the same bed of gravel

and they grow together, miraculously, mutually transfixed,

marveling in each other’s resiliency and vibrancy and growth

and reflectively thrilled to be part of a vivid flower garden

that was never purposefully preconceived and planned

but nonetheless, in itself, ends up vitally existing,

wildly and supernaturally, breathtakingly beautiful,

as only Nature knows how to create.

Therein lies the unerring, intuitive truth:

There are no blueprints greater than the Divine’s.

Soul Sunday

Good morning. Welcome to Soul Sunday. Sunday is the day for poetry on the blog. I started reading a lot of Pearl Jam’s song lyrics before deciding to write my own poem today. It is fair to say that musicians are really poets, who just happen to know how to sing. Eddie Vedder has written some deep stuff in his life. So, I surprised myself when I started doodling my own poem and it turned out to be silly and quirky and fun. That’s what is great about playing around with poetry. You surprise yourself a lot. Write a poem today. Just do it. Surprise and delight yourself. Here is my goofy little ditty for today:

“The Pet Peeve”

There once was woman named Old Mrs. Leave

Who had a huge dog, she appropriately named “Peeve”

She fed him a lot, so he grew and he grew

His favorite thing to do,

was to sit and to stew,

Just like his owner.

Mrs. Leave spent all of her time and focus on Peeve,

To think of anything else, she just couldn’t conceive.

Peeve became a nasty, monstrous beast.

He was snarly and angry, to say the very least.

What is the moral of this poem I released?

“Don’t be a moaner.”

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Soul Sunday

RIP Anne Rice

I’m sorry for the delay in publishing today. We are all fine. I’m just distracted. Much like I am the ultimate impulse shopper, I am also the ultimate clickbait queen, on the internet. And to think, I have the nerve to make fun of our Labrador, Ralphie, when he chases the glimmering reflections of light on the floor, from the sunlight coming through our chandelier. (If you ever have a blindspot to your own behavior, look to what you criticize and/or poke fun about others, and then look for that trait in yourself. If you put down your guard, you will find it. Ugh.)

Since I got so busy going down the rabbit hole of clickbait, I am not in my writing mode. So instead, I started scrambling looking for poems that I liked (since Sunday is poetry day on the blog), written by other people, to share with you all, and I just finally landed on one that I like. Below is a fun poem by the author Brian Bilston, from his collection, You Took the Last Bus Home.

Write a poem, today. Play with words. Play with punctuation. Let your inner creator come out today. Play! Play?!? Play. Play . . . . .

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Soul Sunday

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Sundays are devoted to poetry on the blog. Here are what other people have said about poetry:

+”Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public, what is known in private.” – Alan Ginsberg

+”Poetry is the mother tongue of the human race.” -Johann Georg Hamann

+”I consider myself a poet first and a musician second. I live like a poet and I’ll die like a poet.” – Bob Dylan

Here is my poem for today: (How about you? Do you have a poem to share today, even if just with yourself?)

Little Thing

Yesterday we got you.

You are tiny.

The smallest we have ever had.

We laughed. You are dwarfed in your space.

But you’re beautiful. You’re powerful.

You’ll make us focus on what matters most.

You’ll make us whittle it all down,

To the fondest, most meaningful memories of our lives.

You’re not a theatrical display.

You are an unpresuming extension of our hearts.

How lovely are your branches.

Our little Christmas tree.

Soul Sunday

“Everyone’s a poet – no exceptions.” – Jack Hirschman, prolific American poet

Welcome to Soul Sunday. My regular readers know that Sundays are devoted to poetry. And believe it or not, Sundays are quite a popular day on the blog. The secret’s out of the bag. You really like poetry. You really do. Today is the perfect day for you to write a poem. You are a poet. You are an artist. Just do it. Create. Here is my poem for the day:

“The Invested Rescuers”

When you are in a scary, deep, dark pit,

And beautiful angels help to pull you out,

With their lovely golden corded rope,

Because the angels are so loving and concerned,

about you, they forget that they have pulled you out.

And so they continue to call down to you,

desperately looking for you, at the bottom of the ugly pit,

not realizing that you are now standing calmly behind them,

on the firm, solid ground, relieved to feel the hope

of the sun’s brightest rays, and feeling so warm and thankful for

the angels who cared enough to lovingly pull you out of the dark.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Soul Sunday

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Before I came to write my post, I was reading about a new docu-series on Hulu that depicts the rise and fall of the edgy fashion company, Von Dutch. The original creator of Von Dutch, who died before the fashion company even had its ride up, had this to say:

“Use any of my stuff you want to,” Howard’s manifesto is quoted in the docuseries. “Nothing is original. Everything is in the subconscious, we just ‘tap’ it sometimes and think we have originated something. Genes make us more or less interested in certain things, but nothing is truly original! Copyright and patents are mostly an ego trip.”

I find this quote really interesting. When we do what each of us does best, we speak of using our “God given talents and gifts.” When we do what we really love to do, we get lost in the moment. Time stands still. We often put our minds and our egos to the side and we let our creations flow out of us. I am not convinced that Howard isn’t on to something here, yet my ego would be bruised if someone took some of “my” own written words, and called them their own. Could it be that we are all just vessels that God/Universe uses to bring about more evolution and creation? I think that this is highly possible, but my big, fat ego keeps telling me to “shut up NOW, and take all of the credit.”

Today, on Sunday, which my regular readers know is devoted to poetry, I’m actually going to share a poem, written by the French poet (or perhaps channelled by the poet), Guillaume Apollinaire, who some consider to be the innovator of French poetry. Here it is:

“Come to the edge,” he said.
“We can’t, we’re afraid!” they responded.
“Come to the edge,” he said.
“We can’t, We will fall!” they responded.
“Come to the edge,” he said.
And so they came.
And he pushed them.
And they flew.”

Enjoy a lovely tranquil Sunday. Write, or maybe just be the poetry you would like to see in the world. Be the vessel. Be the channel. Let the light make it through, so that we all can experience it, and deeply know and understand, from where it came.

Soul Sunday

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Good morning. Good. Morning. It’s a good morning. Sundays are devoted to poetry here at the blog. Poetry is a form of writing that makes you notice. It’s not obvious. It’s subtle. It’s nuanced. It’s beauty. Write a poem today. Write a love poem to yourself. The poem (and probably mostly, the act of writing it) will make you feel good. I promise. Here’s my poem for today:

And then suddenly you flew over the lake, effortlessly.

One after the other, full of energy and lightness and carefree dignity.

I usually see just one of you. A delicate white bird,

Sitting all by yourself, in the frightfully large forest.

You stand out in the crowd of trees, a small white pocket of light,

In the thick, dark overgrowth of towering, teeming life.

I am happy to see you today with your flock of friends.

How did I not see? How did I not know?

You were never alone.

Soul Sunday

Good morning. Isn’t the extra hour of sleep delicious? Sundays are devoted to poetry on the blog. Poems say it all, by often saying very little. Today, I am sharing a beautiful poem by Mary Oliver. If you are new to poetry and you are not sure that it’s really “your thing”, read some of Pulitzer Prize winner, Mary Oliver’s poetry. I bet you won’t be able to read just one. Here is one of my favorite poems, of hers:

Tim Ferriss on Twitter: "A short and beautiful poem from Mary Oliver. Not everything important shouts for attentio... https://t.co/cR270rYXWp… "

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

“Come to the edge,” he said.“We can’t, we’re afraid!” they responded.“Come to the edge,” he said.“We can’t, We will fall!” they responded.“Come to the edge,” he said.And so they came.And he pushed them.And they flew.”

“Come to the edge,” he said.
“We can’t, we’re afraid!” they responded.
“Come to the edge,” he said.
“We can’t, We will fall!” they responded.
“Come to the edge,” he said.
And so they came.
And he pushed them.
And they flew.”