Soul Sunday

The New Year lies before you
Like a spotless tract of snow
Be careful how you tread on it
For every mark will show.

Good morning. My regular readers know that Sundays are dedicated to poetry. Poetry is emotion in free form. We think of poetry in just written form, but honestly how we live our lives is a form of poetry, unique to each of us. Today, I choose not to write a poem of my own, but I did some exploring on the internet to find New Year’s poems that spoke to me. I have published them here. Please feel free to share your favorite poems, written by you or others in my Comments section. Have a blessed, easy, dreamy day before we enter the first full week of 2021.

To the New Year

BY W. S. MERWIN

With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning

so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible

Burning the Old Year

BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.

Soul Sunday

Hi friends. My regular readers know that Sundays are devoted to poetry. Poetry is mysterious. It leads people to bring more of their own selves to the words, as poetry is more open to interpretation, than most forms of writing. I think that a lot of us think that we don’t like poetry, and then we open our minds to it, and we end up liking it a lot. Poetry is freeing. Here’s my poem for today. Please, as always, feel safe and comfortable to add your own poems to my Comments section.

JUST FOR ME

The poems that are coming to me this morning,

Are too private to share.

The shield over my heart, tells me to expose no more.

Today the muse needs the soft protection,

of holy hands and feathers, and leather bound covers.

Today the words are just mine.

As are the complicated feelings,

That sometimes words just can’t describe.

Some days, my written language is solely my own.

A story made just for me.

Soul Sunday

Good morning, loves. Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. I’m a little distracted this morning. My own words aren’t flowing. My husband just shared a video with our family, which was magically created by Apple. My family is outdoorsy. We have been blessed to have taken trips together, to some of the greatest natural wonders of our beautiful country. Big Brother Apple just made a lovely montage of our family, on the trails. (and thus, I forgive Apple completely for this intrusion of privacy) The video was pure poetry, in pictures and in motion. I think that poetry is honestly anything that makes you feel deeply. Poetry is not restricted to words. Poetry can be found in music and in nature, in pictures and in paintings, in expressions and in shadows. What makes you feel deeply? That is your poetry. Below are a couple of poetic quotes which I saw today on the internet, from some of my favorite writers. As always, please feel comfortable to share your poetry in my Comments section.

It’s less what the eyes see and more what the soul feels (Paulo Coelho)

Cave People

My darling,

Never decide to Dim your light Accommodating the Ones accustomed

To cages And caves (C. Joybell C.)

“Love one another, but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.” (Khalil Gibran)

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, friends and readers. It is Christmas decorating day, here at my household, so I wrote a poem about it. My regular readers know that Sunday is devoted to poetry here at Adulting- Second Half. I consider Sunday to be a “poetry workshop space”, like Santa’s workshop, but we work with words here. Be like a poetry elf, and add your own additions to my Comments section, if you please. Today’s poem that I wrote is more “tongue in cheek” that my usual offerings. It’s just my mood today.

The Day Has Come

Why does decorating for Christmas change every year?

Sometimes it is something that I do, which I love and adore,

Sometimes it is nothing but a big, fat, ugly chore,

Sometimes I question if that ratty angel is starting to look like a whore,

Sometimes I only decorate, so to not seem like a grinch or a bore,

Sometimes the nostalgia rips me apart, right at my very core,

Sometimes I close a box and remind myself that “less is more”,

Sometimes the lights don’t work again, and we have to go to the store,

Sometimes I get competitive, as if our decorations get assigned a score,

Sometimes decorating gets precarious, and I have to yell “Fore!”

When it seems like the tree could fall over, and make a mess on the floor.

But in the end, when complete, the decorations make me revel in AMORE,

For, the feeling of hope and wonder is something that always stays the same.

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. My regular readers know that I devote Sundays to poetry. I consider Sundays to be a poetry workshop of sorts. I share a poem that I have written or someone else has written, and I strongly encourage you to share your poems in my Comments section. On an aside, last night, during Halloween, we put our candy bowl out on a table, at the end of the driveway, but my husband and I sat up in chairs by our garage doors. We love to see the kids in costumes. I overheard one little boy say, “Wow, why are so many people giving out the big candy bars this year?” That warmed my heart. People are mostly kind-hearted, and we all want the best for each other. Most particularly, we want the best for our little children, the future of humanity. That collective desire for these children to grow up in a beautiful, thriving world is what makes me know that no matter what befalls us, we are all going to be okay. That collective desire and vision and hope for the future generations is an incredibly vital and strong force. It won’t be stopped. Here is my poem for today:

Just an Hour

Preparing and cooking an excellent, nourishing meal.

Giddily getting ready for a night out on the town.

A much anticipated episode of a favorite television show.

An invigorating, healing exercise class.

Staying in bed and sleeping in, with the comfort of pillows and peace.

A hopeful church service or a long, peaceful meditation.

A fun, relaxing lunch break from strenuous, meticulous work.

A long, luxurious massage and facial treatment.

A couple of chapters read in an excellent book.

A hearty walk with our beloved dogs, tiring everyone out.

A long phone call, catching each other up on our individual lives’ events.

All of these things take about an hour of time.

The gift of an extra hour in the day is magnificent.

It is truly striking what an hour of life can contain.

Do we realize it?