Poetry
Hello wild one. I'm so glad you're here, and I'm honored you're enjoying my work. These words are written and copyrighted by me. If you would like to share a piece on a small scale, please feel free to cite me when doing so. If you'd like to share my work in writing form on any platform, please email me to ask permission. Sending you all my wild heart love.
A New Kind of Busy
I’m over here, buzzing around the azaleas.
Here I go, landing on one bloom at a time.
This is me, enveloping myself in flower blessings.
Here I am, not needing to have it all figured out
to start shaking up the branches.
Here I go, landing on one bloom at a time.
This is me, enveloping myself in flower blessings.
Here I am, not needing to have it all figured out
to start shaking up the branches.
What Else is Possible?
What do you love?
Listen to the sound of a good dog’s feet.
Be with the crunching against the sandy gravel as you frolic together at the park.
What would you wish for if you caught a helicopter seed in your hand mid-flight?
If it’s possible for you to be in the right place at the right time
for such an instance, what else is possible?
Slow your momentum down so you can study the colors and lines on this seed.
Feel the capacity for growth that lives within this tiny space.
As the forsythia bloom, they ask you to get up close and personal.
Let the vibrant yellow inspire you to do something bold.
What does today even mean in the grand scheme of life, anyway?
Peel your socks off after a long walk. Let your feet breathe.
Scribble the poem that bursts into your brain on an old grocery list.
Let go of the tight grip of what you think you should do.
What do you love?
There’s room for it, in the palm of your hand,
in the crunch of your sole,
in the spaciousness of your heart.
Listen to the sound of a good dog’s feet.
Be with the crunching against the sandy gravel as you frolic together at the park.
What would you wish for if you caught a helicopter seed in your hand mid-flight?
If it’s possible for you to be in the right place at the right time
for such an instance, what else is possible?
Slow your momentum down so you can study the colors and lines on this seed.
Feel the capacity for growth that lives within this tiny space.
As the forsythia bloom, they ask you to get up close and personal.
Let the vibrant yellow inspire you to do something bold.
What does today even mean in the grand scheme of life, anyway?
Peel your socks off after a long walk. Let your feet breathe.
Scribble the poem that bursts into your brain on an old grocery list.
Let go of the tight grip of what you think you should do.
What do you love?
There’s room for it, in the palm of your hand,
in the crunch of your sole,
in the spaciousness of your heart.
Sitting Down by the Compost Pile
I walked barefoot to the compost pile.
There, I poured out the bucket.
The coffee grounds, carrot peels, avocado pits.
The drudgery, smallness, the burdens.
I buried them in leaves and wood chips.
Then, I sat down awhile.
The sun shone on both of us.
Life and decay. Birds and bugs.
All that I’m deciding to bury, and me.
What happens next, is a quiet kind of freedom.
This breeze softly shakes the leaves- newly grown.
A leaf blower still drones on in the distance.
While there isn’t a seismic shift,
there is something beautiful about trusting a tiny curiosity within myself.
A subtle ripple of joy envelopes all of me.
There, I poured out the bucket.
The coffee grounds, carrot peels, avocado pits.
The drudgery, smallness, the burdens.
I buried them in leaves and wood chips.
Then, I sat down awhile.
The sun shone on both of us.
Life and decay. Birds and bugs.
All that I’m deciding to bury, and me.
What happens next, is a quiet kind of freedom.
This breeze softly shakes the leaves- newly grown.
A leaf blower still drones on in the distance.
While there isn’t a seismic shift,
there is something beautiful about trusting a tiny curiosity within myself.
A subtle ripple of joy envelopes all of me.
On Softening March 1, 2023
I didn’t notice how tight my fingers were clenched on that version of myself until someone told me to soften my hands.
It felt like that time I was trying to pull back a holly bush to make room for a kitchen garden.
It really didn’t want to let go. The roots were so deep into the ground it broke my shovel.
I really didn’t know how to let go of that shell of myself.
There’s a deeper, truer, body of me that wants to move through the world.
She asks for what she needs.
She speaks up against injustice.
She knows she’s not everyone’s cup of tea.
It was one of the most challenging tasks: sloughing the skin of needing to be the projection.
The one who thought if I could just step lightly enough through the world, if I could just speak sweeter and empathize deeper and predict behavior with more accuracy, everything would work out. It didn’t.
What a heavy stone that was to bury.
It still pops up now again, a pebble in my shoe.
Setting a boundary requires a lot of breathing. Realizing I sometimes still try to please others before myself requires a little bit of crying. Being okay with not being loved by everyone requires a fair amount of soil for my hands to sink into.
Breathing, crying, and sinking my hands into soil: a ritual for being more myself.
It felt like that time I was trying to pull back a holly bush to make room for a kitchen garden.
It really didn’t want to let go. The roots were so deep into the ground it broke my shovel.
I really didn’t know how to let go of that shell of myself.
There’s a deeper, truer, body of me that wants to move through the world.
She asks for what she needs.
She speaks up against injustice.
She knows she’s not everyone’s cup of tea.
It was one of the most challenging tasks: sloughing the skin of needing to be the projection.
The one who thought if I could just step lightly enough through the world, if I could just speak sweeter and empathize deeper and predict behavior with more accuracy, everything would work out. It didn’t.
What a heavy stone that was to bury.
It still pops up now again, a pebble in my shoe.
Setting a boundary requires a lot of breathing. Realizing I sometimes still try to please others before myself requires a little bit of crying. Being okay with not being loved by everyone requires a fair amount of soil for my hands to sink into.
Breathing, crying, and sinking my hands into soil: a ritual for being more myself.
To Have a Body February 22, 2023
Gazing down at the palm of my hand, I see a tapestry of lines and life.
These vessels of all-day-long-doing. And what do I do for them?
All day long they touch and feel and feed and hold.
Sensing now my soles against the carpet.
These vehicles of all-day-long-interfacing. And what do I do for them?
All day long they walk and shift and stand and skip.
I put my palm against my sole. Were they once the same?
Hands and feet. How humble am I to be one with them.
My hands can squeeze my own shoulders.
I start to melt into loving the tissues between them.
How is it that I have a heart that always beats
and lungs that are ever expanding with the exact air I need?
Why do I sometimes take for granted the way my toes can stretch?
At times, it takes an act of violence at the fault of my bed frame in the middle of the night
to even remember I have toes, albeit a stubbed one.
Yes, having a body hurts. Just like it often hurts to tell the truth of the space I’ve been existing in.
I can let a smile come to my face in recognition. I can open my eyes to the places I’ve been critical. I can see where I’ve been wrong. This is who I am. I can either wander through my day worrying about the next inconvenience. Or I could choose another path. One where I love more.
I can feel my feet against the carpet now, and be grateful.
These vessels of all-day-long-doing. And what do I do for them?
All day long they touch and feel and feed and hold.
Sensing now my soles against the carpet.
These vehicles of all-day-long-interfacing. And what do I do for them?
All day long they walk and shift and stand and skip.
I put my palm against my sole. Were they once the same?
Hands and feet. How humble am I to be one with them.
My hands can squeeze my own shoulders.
I start to melt into loving the tissues between them.
How is it that I have a heart that always beats
and lungs that are ever expanding with the exact air I need?
Why do I sometimes take for granted the way my toes can stretch?
At times, it takes an act of violence at the fault of my bed frame in the middle of the night
to even remember I have toes, albeit a stubbed one.
Yes, having a body hurts. Just like it often hurts to tell the truth of the space I’ve been existing in.
I can let a smile come to my face in recognition. I can open my eyes to the places I’ve been critical. I can see where I’ve been wrong. This is who I am. I can either wander through my day worrying about the next inconvenience. Or I could choose another path. One where I love more.
I can feel my feet against the carpet now, and be grateful.
A poem for why you came February 15, 2023
You didn’t come here to just take out the garbage.
You may have come to smell the coffee grounds while you clean out the coffee pot.
You may have come to pause and watch the crows protesting on a low branch.
But you didn’t come to answer emails in a timely manner.
You may have come to touch softly a babies head, or caress the moss growing at the base of a birch tree- with similar reverence.
You may have come to taste the dynamic between goat cheese and fig. Or even chocolate. Any kind of chocolate will do.
You didn’t come to carry every book on doing, every heavy text book, in your backpack.
Maybe you came here to listen to a morning dove, and to try your best– yet fail beautifully– at calling back to her, in her native tongue.
Maybe you came here to fail beautifully over and over again.
Maybe you came here to remember that you aren’t failing at all.
You were actually living and letting yourself dance with all the shadows of life.
All the shadows of humanity.
You may have come to smell the coffee grounds while you clean out the coffee pot.
You may have come to pause and watch the crows protesting on a low branch.
But you didn’t come to answer emails in a timely manner.
You may have come to touch softly a babies head, or caress the moss growing at the base of a birch tree- with similar reverence.
You may have come to taste the dynamic between goat cheese and fig. Or even chocolate. Any kind of chocolate will do.
You didn’t come to carry every book on doing, every heavy text book, in your backpack.
Maybe you came here to listen to a morning dove, and to try your best– yet fail beautifully– at calling back to her, in her native tongue.
Maybe you came here to fail beautifully over and over again.
Maybe you came here to remember that you aren’t failing at all.
You were actually living and letting yourself dance with all the shadows of life.
All the shadows of humanity.
Roots February 8, 2023
Here’s the thing about roots: most won’t be able to see them.
Even if you let yours peek up and play at earth's surface;
Most are hustling too quickly through their days to pause, and look down.
Don’t let this outward focus fool you. There’s much to receive on that which cannot be seen.
Go slowly, and nourish your roots. Give the hidden aspects of yourself what they need.
What about letting yourself find your footing on a path that leads to where the squirrels leap
And the finches sing and there’s nowhere to hurry toward?
You’ve arrived in the home of yourself.
It is here. It is where your whole being can intermingle with the divine.
Even if you let yours peek up and play at earth's surface;
Most are hustling too quickly through their days to pause, and look down.
Don’t let this outward focus fool you. There’s much to receive on that which cannot be seen.
Go slowly, and nourish your roots. Give the hidden aspects of yourself what they need.
What about letting yourself find your footing on a path that leads to where the squirrels leap
And the finches sing and there’s nowhere to hurry toward?
You’ve arrived in the home of yourself.
It is here. It is where your whole being can intermingle with the divine.
Warming Poem February 1, 2023
Within you, there’s a warmth. Lean in, and you feel the heat. Lean in, and you know something is lit there.
Here’s a question to ask: do you get to feel it? Do you get to watch the flickering movement? Some believe fire was a gift from a God. A great risk and great sacrifice for humans to cook, warm, and gather around. Some have proven it to be a turning point in our evolution into the beings we are now. Yet, we use it to run around ourselves in endless tasks and never ending productive-ness. How is it that this incredible spark in our growth as a species came to this?
There’s an invitation to pause and make long.. Some may call it awkwardly long.. Eye contact with a red tailed hawk who is currently posting on a particularly low branch. There’s something about this long held eye contact that blows oxygen into your fire. You wonder, does it spark something in her, too? There’s no way to know for sure. There’s no way to know anything. Even in the not knowing-ness of it all– are you willing to reconfigure this gift of presence for yourself? Are you willing to tend to your fire, as if your life depended on it? As if the life, the one you are meant to fully embody and experience, depended on it?
Within you, there’s a fire lit. Will you tend to it?
Here’s a question to ask: do you get to feel it? Do you get to watch the flickering movement? Some believe fire was a gift from a God. A great risk and great sacrifice for humans to cook, warm, and gather around. Some have proven it to be a turning point in our evolution into the beings we are now. Yet, we use it to run around ourselves in endless tasks and never ending productive-ness. How is it that this incredible spark in our growth as a species came to this?
There’s an invitation to pause and make long.. Some may call it awkwardly long.. Eye contact with a red tailed hawk who is currently posting on a particularly low branch. There’s something about this long held eye contact that blows oxygen into your fire. You wonder, does it spark something in her, too? There’s no way to know for sure. There’s no way to know anything. Even in the not knowing-ness of it all– are you willing to reconfigure this gift of presence for yourself? Are you willing to tend to your fire, as if your life depended on it? As if the life, the one you are meant to fully embody and experience, depended on it?
Within you, there’s a fire lit. Will you tend to it?
Wintering January 25, 2023
How do you do this thing called wintering?
Are you keeping busy.. Growing toward a new version of yourself? Are you setting new year goals, and letting your sneakers crunch on the icy paths? Are you warming by a fire, watching the dance of flames with a deep yearning for that kind of tenacity? Are you giving yourself the space to lie down, tell the truth of your weariness, be with your grief? Are you pouring nourishment into your roots in the form of fuzzy sock love, salt bath prayers, and milky tea meditations? However it is that you winter, sweet one, know this: You have permission to gather what you need, to do what you desire, and to be who you truly are. |
Redefine setbacks. Reconfigure what it means to fail. Define what your perception to this pain is. You may not always get to hand select the mediums delivered to you but you do get to decide what you create with them. [you~are~the~artist] |
I want to slow down and savor this beautiful life. I want to be quiet so I can hear the leaves dancing in their final hour, as they prepare to fall softly with no hesitation. I want to look deep into the eyes of my sister, and embody the love that’s reflected back. I want to reach out into the universe, draw the essence of everything into a close embrace, and breathe in the scent of all that is. I want to be present with the world, as a way to recognize the way this world is present with me. |