Poet Soul Postcards
Dispatches from reverie.
To be a poet soul
you need not put pen to page,
finger to key.
You need not be a poet
(although you might be and not know it).
It’s the way you look at life
through open eyes,
see surprises, delight,
aren't afraid to feel the hard things
and go forth anyway,
making it all your art.
Today I cannot express my feelings.
And nobody seems to say them for me.
Most days there are no great insights, just the sun moving across the sky, shoes on pavement, shadows from a chain link fence.
But what’s true remains: the things that save you are the things that save you.
May you find yourself lost
by the sea,
your pointed certainties smoothed,
silken like driftwood having
finally ~ faithfully ~
surrendered. Salt in the air
and your hair, whispering
wind telling the truth:
sure as tides shift,
you are allowed.
In an alternate universe,
I wouldn't have to keep my distance for fear that you would break my heart or that I would break yours.
Nuances wouldn't need interpretation.
It wouldn't matter who came before or who would be next.
In an alternate universe, it would be just exactly as sunny as this and we would go walking around the lake.
Morning moon
a sliver
low, gigantic, golden
Driving to work
before
seven on a Sunday
I glimpse, gasp
forget
the to-do list
Swerve onto side
streets
for a better view
(I won’t on time as planned after all)
There are some things
goals
must surrender to
The only
worship
I know:
Moon
Poem
Unexpected
church
Lately she has been calling me,
"hello! do you remember me? i'm here. can we connect, please?"
it is my essence. my high self. my spirit self. my real me.
i have been acting as though life is scarce, as though i need somebody else ~ everybody else ~ to approve of my path, as though accomplishment is everything. like this: get ahead or you'll die. make sure you do it right or you'll die!
when did this happen? when did i lose sight of the woman i want to be, forget to nurture the woman i already am?
i have been ignoring my bones.
because my deepest desires are these: to feel the weight of every moment, to witness the moments between the moments. to feel the weight of the coffee mug in my hands, to feel the burst an orange wedge on my tongue, to feel the texture of your skin on my fingertips, to feel it all. to notice. to be here. to connect. to trust my intuition, to have faith in my unique way, to save myself.
how easy it is to go astray.
and a little harder to get back on course. but i know my bones are here with me always. my truest, knowingest self is always here. all i need to do is hear her.
thus: slowing down. breathing deeper. talking less.
outside my window just now
it happened, the golden leaf ~ sweet soft slowly soaring ~ took her time, drifted, let the breeze bring her, blow her in billowing arcs, which might seem like a luxury, but as nature knows and (creative souls) savoring the journey from here to there is not an extravagance, but the only way
Morning mind dashes
abruptly headlong
the starting gun still
smoking --
Wait one second!
I did not sign up for this race!
Heart pounding
hurting
cutting over, changing lanes, dodging
others, nearly tripping
I will be disqualified.
I don’t want to be a sprinter.
In the grass I catch my breath.
The urge to become limp, to dissolve.
No, I say kindly, but certainly clear.
Some patterns are made for breaking, and
the only truth worth running toward: your body, alive.
This evening I took the route home that gives me a view of the city skyline.
The sun was setting. The air was cool but soft and my heart swelled with nostalgia, not for things of my past, but rather for the very moment I was in, how it would soon be over.
My mom called. "It's beautiful outside,” she said, “I just got back from a walk, and it occurred to me that I don't know how many more autumns I will have."
Her voice was as tender as the air, as tender as my heart.
"It was so nice to feel the air on my skin," she said.
Death is not an unfamiliar topic for my mother and I to discuss, it has been with us in many forms, many ways, and she has instructed me on what to do upon hers: not stay too long in grief, buy myself a beautiful dress, give roses to strangers. But in recent years, the tone of her voice around the topic has changed, and it is clear that she is coming to terms with, preparing for, something else, what’s next.
So that’s why I took the detour on my way home tonight and walked to the park to catch the last glimpse of sun and feel the breeze against my bare arms.
Sunbeams reach, silhouetting
mountains, trees, and
I remember: isn’t it lovely,
morning’s first desire to stretch
open to the light?
Dear Moon,
No matter your size or shape or color or height in the sky,
I love you entirely forever perfectly.
And when you shine at me like that
the way you always do,
I swear to god you love me too.
Eternally yours,
Amanda
Ode To Staying Home on Saturday Night
When temptation comes knocking
with parties and gin,
be polite, say, “No thank you,
tonight I’ll stay in.”
Going out is fun,
but there is something more.
I’m talking about art,
creativity galore.
There are projects to do,
you must finish them all.
You were born with a gift,
can you answer the call?
Invoke your muses
and turn off your phone,
open your senses,
take a walk all alone.
Sharpen your pencils,
be silent and still.
When the right sentence comes
it is really a thrill.
Hour after hour,
day after day,
with practice and patience
you will know what to say
When the work is complete,
go out. Have a blast.
Heart work must come first,
revelry last.
On the last day of summer,
I walk without aim. I am delighted ~ always ~ by dancing shadows. Nothing new, just a stirring inside, a deepening desire for the things that require my focused and slow concentration, the things that cannot be understood at first pass. Forest paths, foreign languages, symphonies.
I am tired.
In lesser moments, I let my mind spin.
In higher moments, I look to the trees, their branches mostly bare and whisper, Trust life.
Life cycles.
Creation and destruction, fervor and rest, diligence and play.
It has a rhythm outside the mind, beyond what we can hold.
Living embodied means allowing cycles to exist not just in theory, but in practice.
It means allowing life to arise as it will, to be fully expressed and realized on its own terms.
It means not squelching or hurrying.
It is nearly December.
I follow the leaves to the ground, let my muscles fall from their bones, decompose a little.
May winter do with me what she will.
removing. reflecting. resting back.
steady. steadfast. satisfied. clear. i see. “time’s been good to you,” he said. and it’s true. it has. the tenderness between us. still there. obvious even in a brief encounter on the street, still there even after so many years. love comes. love goes. love comes. honey fills my heart.