Tag Archives: poetry


23 Dec. 2017

Todays blog includes a friend/author of mine, with the pseudo name, A.M. Salt.  We will be sharing my blog for the next month or so.  Enjoy our different styles, our different ways we find ourselves calling up the words that feel like they need saying.

snow ponies

WHAT WE IMAGED

EMPTY PRESENCE

Vast is the presence of the infinite
Empty in the unknown
Spacious beyond comprehension

Waiting for a message
Fingertips poised for the tap
The mundane gathers the call

Waiting for the whisper of a gift
Feeling the sureness of words
That the cosmos will deliver

Hard is the buzz of the amour stink bug
In the immediacy of the invite
Hidden in the folds of the curtains

The winged buzz threatens a landing
Breaking into Empty presence
A thief of the silent waiting.

Hands and arms flapping it away
Utterances of unkindnesses
Knowing the creepy feel of that crawl

The awareness now seeks to awaken
This traveler that meets the intrusion
with resistance and a curse

What say you armored bug?
Gift me with your presences
Share the vastness of this Now

I give you freedom in winter chill
As the last bit of life of you
Speaks to the One Heart

In the Empty presence of
The vastness that is in All
Wisdom is in everything

Jeanne Adwani

* * * * * * * *

If I ever forget
the trout that rose
behind the biggest stone
in the middle of the stream
near Whitefish
the year that just my Mother and I
went to fish camp

Remind me, would you?

Its snout surfaced
to take a Blue Olive
drifted just so over the top of the rock
and spilled into the eddying pool.
Remind me how the orange maples’
reflection shone on its back.

A.M. Salt

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WHERE IS HEAVEN?


Here it is, almost 10pm and my fingers and mind have not danced across these pages.  I was lost in my day and letting the writing ritual pass, suddenly, I think to myself.  Dang.. I have yet to lay words here.

So.. here I am as 10pm passes into 10:01 and my need to bring together this day in this way calls me.

I watched a recording of Barbara Walter’s “Heaven: Where is it?  How do we get there?”  So many religious/spiritual expressions of Heaven.  It provokes my own feelings and thoughts about it.

I choose Heaven in the likeness

of joy, laughter, Love, Light and goodness

I choose Heaven to be where I am

 

My heaven is on the inside of me.

I can choose to experience it in any

given moment at any given time

 

I can shift my thinking, my attitude

to embrace what I imagine is Peaceful

tender, compassionate with a breath

 

There is not a time I can not be

in Heaven no matter what kind

of Hell struggles for survival

 

No amount of ravage, despair,

illness, plight, can keep Heaven

from me in my allowing of it

 

I choose the shake of the dice

Sitting in the turbulence of

life’s stormy upheaval.

 

And when those dice fall

I know without looking that

I have laid the best of it on the table

 

My Heaven is merely a thought away

A breath away, my own personal

self proclaimed infinite glory.

 

Heaven is what I make of my

good living.  Heaven is here

now, Heaven is here.  Heaven is.

 

 

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THE TRUTH IS IN THE TELLING


Howdy… Thanks for stopping by.   Weather relief… Yippee.  Too hot for this gal these last days.  And… nature wins. She does what she feels she can and we that share space with her have to go with the hot flow.  So. today, is perfect.  Cool and sunny.  aaaahhh

Tomorrow, I slam a story in front of other local entrepreneurs at Live in Ann Arbor.  http://www.knowledgecrush.com/index.php/entreslam  I can safely tell you, I’m super nervous.  I have my story ready for the telling.  It will ultimately, well, if I win, which I don’t know that at all. might go up on You-Tube.  Now wouldn’t that be a hoot?

 

Stories are for the telling

At least some stories are

Some stories are ramblings

that don’t get you far

 

It’s all one big story

We have one going all the time

Don’t fool yourself in the glory

That yours might be mine

 

We walk around making up

Some story about this or that

Having no idea of the what

That really is where the story’s at

 

What do you know about the truth

When no details belong to you

YOu walk around with no real proof

About what doesn’t belong to you

 

Stories are for the telling

Be sure you know the facts

Otherwise my friends your selling

Words that are not on track

 

What you see may not be what it is

No matter the story you glean

Until you walk in someone else’s biz

You story is not what it seems

 

The story you tell is yours alone

The truth is yours in that telling

NO other truth can be known

Cause only you know that telling

 

PLEASE… visit my Invitation Tarot blog.    http://invitationtarot.com

 

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THE NOW OF IT..


Golly gee.  another day to honor life and give it all a good laugh or two, or three.  Not that it’s all laughs and chuckles .  and… the bog down in the quagmire of busyness, and distractions sure can drag a gal away from the pleasures of living in the moment, even if the moment is kinda poo in the moment. Ya know?  

 

I simply can not keep away from writing about the Be Here Now.

 

If I was really in the Now

I’d have no need to write a word

choose a clever font, entice a clever

thought to rise and flow from these 

tapping tapping little fingers

 

I can hardly keep up with the Now

grabbing the sounds of birds

the pant of my dog, the neighbors 

chatting by as they walk with

their children, cars passing,

all the glorious green that waves

at me from outside my windows

The Sun hanging low in the morning

sky.  My cats staring at the squirrel

The morning chill on my skin

 

It’s a very busy Now if I let it all in

When my senses sense in the gather up

of it…breathe it in to fill me up

Rove my eyes over the immediacy

of what my eyes can gather in

Fill my ears with chatter of life

Expand my psyche out and up

to connect with the Infinite voice

 

Now is full and filling and

for me I call to focus on this font

these words, this ramble, the tap tap

tap of my fingers spelling out my Now

here with you cause right Now 

Me and you are Now-ing together

even tho’ I have gone off to make a day

of living, you are here.. Right  Now.

 

I’m breathing with you.

 

 

 

 

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LIPOGRAM… KIDDING


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LULLABY


Sippy the brew… let it tumble on through.  Mornin’  Poetry prompt today… write a lullaby.  That means something sweet and tender, all soft and rhythmic.  I was slammin’ yesterday and today I’m gonna follow the prompt and go to my sweet place. I might have to forage around inside my heart for a minute, not to say that sweetness doesn’t rise up in me often, it’s just that I tend to polka dot it with humor and distraction.

 

Shh my sweet love close your tired eyes

Let me caress you soft beneath the night sky

Feel the silk of the pillow the warmth of my breath

Sink deep into slumber, give yourself rest

 

Dream the sweet dream of our love tender and true

Dream of our days lost in love me and you

For now my sweet love close your tired eyes

Sink deep into slumber, beneath the night sky

 

And when you awake with dew on your lips

My darling my sweet I will be here with a kiss

So, shhh my sweet love, my darling, my one

Sink deep into slumber till the rise of the sun

 

 

 

 

 

 

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SOAP OPERA HEAT


He buffs and polishes my nails

White mask held tight around his ears

as his vigor sends white powder flying

In a cloud of  dust around our heads

The drone of betrayal and anger

splays itself on to  the wide screen Tv

Held high against the back wall  

The soap opera marches into his fingers

as he sands and buffs my nails

 

Muffled comments emanate from behind

The swath of white cover over his mouth

I can feel his heat rise on the bed of my nails

“I hate those shows.  I hate how they treat each other.”

I imagine his lips taunts in the hiss of the words

behind that mask that denies toxic inhalation

He exhales the toxic conversation coming

In his ears from the wide screen Tv

He gives the burn of it to my nails

 

I give and ‘Ouch’ and a twitch

“It’s evil.”  he says  “Family should never

treat each other like that. It’s evil”

His eyes never meet mine in this intimate

Space we share in the buzz and buff

of my nails in the heat of his anger

And the septic conversation rolling

over us from the wide screen TV

I give agreement to his sentiment

It is an Opera that no amount of soap

will ever clean the toxic dump of it

from a man that honors and holds

his family in the tender truth of his love

 

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