Good morning. Welcome to Soul Sunday. Sundays are all about poetry here at Adulting-Second Half. Sometimes I write a poem and share it. Other times I share a poem by someone else that has moved me. I strongly encourage you to add your poems to my Comments section. Poetry is such a fluid, interesting, untethered use of words. Try it. You’ll like it. I found today’s poem as I was going through some piles of paper on my desk. It is a beautiful poem by the poet Ingrid Goff-Maidoff. Since our homes have been our keepers and our comforters throughout the pandemic, I thought that her words were particularly meaningful.
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.
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
Hello, dear hearts. I was reading an essay about a writer who would go to her grandparents’ Kentucky home every summer and her favorite memory of that precious time in her childhood, is that everyone would call each other “dear heart.” It’s so interesting, when we look back at our lives, to see what memories really mean something to us and seem to stick out, as defining moments. Often, it’s the most seemingly inconsequential happenings that really make the biggest mark on our lives. When this coronavirus situation has finally passed, we will all just hold tidbits of memories and emotions that will forever mark this time in our lives. And even though we are all collectively experiencing much of the same event, we will all memorialize it differently, with a few random aspects of it all, that will be forever seared into our minds and into our hearts.
My regular readers know that Sundays are devoted to poetry. It is poetry workshop day at Adulting – Second Half. Here’s my poem for the day. Please gift us with your melodious, soul flowing words, in my Comments section. Thank you and bless you, dear hearts.
Home
The charming abode with the white picket fence,
Filled with apple pies and common decency,
Once became so unremarkable that it bored people to tears.
But in times of raging storms and bewildering uncertainty,
We seek the lovely, well-kept, placid cottage,
Brimming with integrity and the solidity of a foundation
Made from the salt of the earth.
And yet its location is not so easy to find anymore.
It turns out that the common places, weren’t so common.
They were precious. They got overshadowed by Darkness’ need,
for ravenous attention and the insatiable hunger to overtake.
Still, the navigation system lies within, to bring us back,
To the windy path, protected by the wise elders of trees,
And at the end of the path, is the place of our heartland,
That has always been there, with doors wide open,
Beckoning us in with a welcoming, warm embrace.
Reminding us that we can always return to the comfort
Of the indefatigable sunlit energy that sustains the lovely retreat,
This wholesome, beautiful, light-filled, sustainable cottage of our hearts.
Good morning, friends and readers. Today is our poetry workshop day. Today is when the words just come out of you, and you just try to put them into some kind of playful form. It’s our free-wheeling creative wordplay day. No judgment. No critiquing. Just getting it out there, all in fun. Please share your poems in my Comments section. Here is my poem for today:
Our Loves
You love to fish,
Like I love to write.
You throw your line into the deep waters,
With wonderment of what will be brought to the surface.
As do I.
In the meantime, you sit peacefully with yourself,
Just breathing, just waiting, just expecting,
Yet not knowing really what to expect.
As do I.
Sometimes the line never moves.
Nothing is ever felt.
Not even a nibble.
But for the days when the line reaches the bottom depths,
And catches on to something so full of life and movement and veracity,
And though difficult to bring it in, you actually feel one with the life process of it all,
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 . . . . .
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.
Happy Father’s Day!! I am blessed by the men in my life. As a woman, I understand that not everyone can say that, so I am utterly and completely grateful. New readers, Sundays are devoted to poetry. On Sundays, I either write a poem or share a poem written by someone else and I strongly encourage you to add your poems in my Comments section. I consider Sundays to be a poetry workshop day for us. There is no judgment, just creative wordplay and word flow. Please see previous Sunday posts for more poetry to feed your soul.
Good morning, friends. It’s a lovely sunny Sunday morning here which is so refreshing because we have had quite a bit of rain here lately. It makes me feel peaceful and hopeful. New readers, Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting– Second Half. On Sundays, I either share a poem I have written or I share a poem written by someone else. Please share your poetry with me and other readers, in the Comments section. Today’s poem is from a book of poetry by Kevin Anderson. I love his poetry because it follows the same format of adding to and thus, cleverly changing an original thought or idea, to something more profound. This poem is from the book Now is Where God Lives.
Sundays are devoted to words in poetry form here at Adulting – SecondHalf. I write a poem or share a poem that I have found by another author that has deeply touched me. I strongly encourage you to publish your poems in my Comments section, but if you are shy, just jot a few poems down today, in your own private journal. It’s cathartic. I promise you. Here’s my poem for the day.
THE TREES STAND TALLER
Across the lake, lies a jungle of trees.
During the day, all of the life, teeming within the trees, is deceptively quiet.
The trees put on a calm, serene front.
They are tall, green soldiers, standing at guard,
As the lake dutifully reflects the stillness, for which the forest tries to portray.
The trees shade their inner inhabitants, promising them protection,
And respite, from the harsh, depleting rays of the sun.
But when night falls, all comes alive. The sounds are roars.
And though you can’t see anything, you know that the woodland houses
Majestic, wild creatures who can no longer remain quiet nor still.
Their howls are primal. The thicket has come alive with calls and cries.
The intensity and the mystery of it all, pulsates every one of my senses.
Fear and excitement are just different words for the very same sensations,
These sensations that are electrified through me and within me,
As I stare into the darkness of nightfall,
And in my mind, I picture the trees in their usual, reliable spots,
Even though I am not really able to see them, in any shape or form.
I feel wondrous bewilderment and almost reckless abandonment,
Frozen in wonder of the mysteriousness of it all.
When I wake in the morning, and walk into the dewy grass and stare at the trees
Far across the lake, I smile in perplexity. The trees are statues again.
The day sounds are gentle chirps and the whispering of breezes through the leaves,
I half expect a maiden with seven small men to appear, in whistling cheer.
Was my experience with the night, all in my imagination?
Was it all just a vision from the deepest recesses and caverns of my sleepy mind?
Does the night really change everything? Is darkness required to really come alive?
The forest is the same. It is deeply rooted and entwined,
I know that under the dark shade of night, the trees still stand their guard,
In their place of solid sentry, held for centuries.
So why does the forest seem to be such a different place, in the light of day?
My guess is that the trees delight in the aliveness of their inhabitants,
Who only feel safe to come out and play,
Under the cloak of the darkness of shadowy midnight.
Which state of being do the trees prefer? Do they like the stillness of the day?
Or do they prefer the humming, restless mystery of the night?
I think that the forest intrinsically understands that both lightness and dark,
Are necessary for the fullest expression of life.
The trees stay still enough, and quiet enough, and strongly rooted enough,
To fully appreciate and bathe in this intrinsic wisdom,
To just be themselves and to experience all of the complicated states of being,
For their tenure of life on Earth, in their very own spots, in the forest of other trees.
And no matter the time of day or of night,
The trees stand taller, reaching for the Heavens, grateful for the wisdom of this truth.
