This was written for dVerse where we are to use “shed,” in whatever definition you choose, in a poem.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
Last week I decided I needed to try to ground myself because everything felt like it was spinning out of my control. (Silly human.) So I went searching for poems by my favorite poet, Mary Oliver. Continue reading
After Summer’s Dream
I move to help Aunt Celia return to the house, but she grabs my hand.
You sleep while I write words of love I keep hidden, jewels of no profit Continue reading
Written for Monday night’s haibun at dVerse.
Regarding poetry writing, I am a late bloomer. Fiction ruled my heart and mind although I loved words and rhythm and sound. Poetry was like a mystical voice, too enigmatic to undertake until I found poetry by Neruda, Mary Oliver, and Jane Kenyon, such different voices whispering to me, yet each echoing a love of words. Beautiful, hungry words. Continue reading
Nathaniel T. Wheelwright and Bernd Heinrich
October 19, 2017
It’s a roach appearing unexpectedly in scant light. It came out of nowhere and suddenly it’s there and you’re worried it could be an invasion.
Maybe this is a remnant of your dream in which you allowed yourself to feel insignificant.
You’re in the sunshine now. Here: laughter, birds, a squirrel flopped on a branch, a woodpecker rattling against an oak, and a breeze that stirs new leaves, soft, genuine, life affirming.
You can release melancholy.
You can merge with the sun rays, become one with brightness, feel the living, the butterfly gliding, flapping its velvet wings.
How can all of this, and you, be insignificant?
Mother Nature flicks her wand
Rain pours down
But in her wisdom
Today is not ordinary
(but then no day is)
For in moments there is wind
And a shift to sun
And bulbous clouds scudding
And mercurially she tosses out a rainbow
I admire her capriciousness
And the cardinals chirp
And the squirrel’s nose flaunts a millet gem
And the wind chimes sing with the breeze
Maybe I curled too long in a bruised body
Engrossed in pain, believing
an extraordinary event provides profound answers
I missed the cherry blossoms unfurl
The arrival of the cowbird as true a call of spring
But now I understand there are answers always
And questions, more to unravel
And the answer is neither inward nor outward
But all around, in the ordinary and extraordinary
Except I would attest, nothing is truly ordinary
once we privilge ourselves to see