Tuesday, 30 December 2014


There is a soft snowfall this morning
and the trees are perfectly kissed with white
and there is silence here
A kind of quiet that is anything but
Chickadees happily chatting
throwing spent husks over their shoulders
a steady bombing of miniscule refuse onto the deck below
Pages of books slowly turning against the sound of another's breath
the way the chimney talks in response to the fires heat
soft pops and creaks
a steady heartbeat of warming steel
There is silence here
We fall easily into this life
Breathing deeper and moving slower
Hands on hips in tiny spaces
become a slow dancing conversation
necessary for sharing small distances
 hot stove and cold winter air
Mere footsteps between
There is silence here
the kind of quiet that sinks into a soul
rhythmic and wild and
pulsing with life
Elusive in worlds shared with forced air furnaces
and TV's
If mittened hands clasped tight
and roughened beards against smooth cheeks cannot be heard
then what more are we missing?
There is silence here

Tuesday, 9 December 2014

Have you seen
amongst this square and empty screen
the thoughts? Bouncing and careening off the walls, then
floating by on whispy clouds
Nothing has been tangible
No cohesive joining together in a way to tell you
how I am
what I've been up to
(you'd have to come to tea for that)
I would miss this place
except for that its make believe
Devised space to create the illusion of connection
which it does in its own way
(I cannot argue that)
More than missing this space
I miss the block of text
the current date stamp
A sort of to do list checked off for a chunk of time.
And I miss the words
 and then yours
weaving together and blending
becoming snapshots of moments
A photo album of moods.

Saturday, 9 August 2014

Sharing Space

The ants seem totally unconcerned
with the lightning flashing pink streaks
across the sky above us
and even less concerned with my opinion of them
Busy - always- in their quest to clean my house
of its plethora of dead fly bodies and missed toast crumbs
It's a series of odd bargains I seem to strike these days
with the 'others' that share this space with me
Swollen legs traded for honey
and lessons in courage
Occasional shrew poop on windowsills
beside the ghostly wing remains of moths
Lego indents in tender bare feet
for the laughter of two boys
Mostly, it seems easy
As easy I think, as that little ant believes moving the giant fly is
This sharing of space
mixing breath with those I love
and those I can hardly say I am fond of
leaving room for ants to be ants
and boys to be boys
Mostly, I say, in a breathless way
for the storms beauty and its fury still sometimes clutch at my heart
along with the opinions of others
and leave me forgetting that sealed up houses
do not breath

Tuesday, 10 June 2014

The T-Shirt Project

The simplicity of it pleases me.
It is comfort and ease and
personal expression
in a single piece of clothing.
Infinite possibilities
and a voice all its own.
Who doesn't have a favorite?
Let the story begin....

If you wish to follow along, this will be the best place to do so


I find myself wishing fiercely
for the wolf willows to open their yellow flowers
and fill the air with their cloying sultry fragrance.
But I am trying to sweep wishes
out of my list of words
their passive waiting,
irritating and cowardly
As much as I love the way
a wish sails through ones teeth
and over the lips like a simple breath of possibilities.
This place was not a wish
Love is not a wish
The river pulling my seeking feet to her ravaged banks
was not a wish
Instead I lie still in blankets of cheery white and wild strawberry flowers
watch the honey bees pack their tiny baskets full of dandelion pollen
until they are so weighted and heavy
that their getting off the yellow flowers and into the air
seems like it too might be a wish
And I stroke the silvery leaves of the willows
Breathing in the bravery of patience

Monday, 19 May 2014


This is what falling in love looks like...
in my world anyway!

Tuesday, 13 May 2014

He asked me what it felt like
as the snow sank,
wet and muddy at our feet
and the hens ruffled soggy feathers
into the spring storm
Sparkly, I said.
Lots of pretty colours.
And that sweet burst of his laughter
filled the space beneath the trees
But what I really should have said
was that it feels like unfurling
opening layer upon layer
of heat and want and raw trust.
Expanding into a shared vastness of all that ever will be
where even the moon seems touchable
and the earth makes tiny footprints on open petals
and on the edge of that sweet world
arms outstretched and heart flying
The unfurling reverses
pressing and encircling
in gentle and fierce sweeps
that curl forever inward
to a place where there is only us
There is only us

Monday, 5 May 2014

Contrary to what I've thought of myself for quite some time, I don't follow direction well.  I'm not sure if I have been living in denial all this time, or if this is something new about me.  But there, I said it out loud and I'm admitting it to you all!

I was asked to participate in a blog tour.  Kind of a pay it forward, promotion of inspirational blogs where I am to answer some questions about myself and introduce you to a few of my blog peeps.  Feel the love! 

But here's the thing.  Its seems I have to do it my way.  To pay tribute to a few people I am adoring these days (when there is are so so many of you out there, men and women) and let all the good loving energy flow where it may.  No script, and no answers to questions that I don't seem to know the answers too.

Hope you enjoy.  People are so great - don't you think?

http://halfcenturymarkhotel.com/ Miss Patti.  She is the lovely soul who invited me along for the ride and someone who never ceases to take my breath away with her art.  Someday, I'm gonna sit down and have tea with her.  Bucket list item.

http://yogawithadriene.com/blog/ Miss Adriene.  Teaching me yoga from a million miles away and often making me laugh while she does it.  Finding what feels good!

http://tinybuddha.com/ Excellent articles and quotes that have me thinking and pondering and loving.

I read something recently that contained a thought that has stuck in my thoughts lately, and I thought I would leave it with you to also ponder.  Would love to hear what you think..... 

If, when we come into contact with another person, another soul walking this world, we cannot find something that sparks our curiosity or touches us in some way, were we really listening?  

Saturday, 3 May 2014

Does he choose to walk through my door to greet me with his scintillating eyes
and choose to leave
steps heavy and shoulders hung notches lower
(noticeable only to someone who hungrily watches the way he moves)
Or is it just breath
unconscious movements in his chest
easy and deep
tight and smoky
 I whisper into my wave goodbye
pay attention
be astonished
this sweet, rain washed air we breath
makes no judgements on the lungs that briefly hold it

Sunday, 20 April 2014

So many sweet moments in my days
I am where I wish to be

Thursday, 6 March 2014

Where is the inspiration?
my muse?
All the words that fit together
like puzzle pieces
shaping emotions and ideas into little
rubber balls
I sometimes allow myself to call poetry
There is very little angst these days
no turmoil to stir the prose in pots of change and fear
Instead a solid warmth slides easily
over my days
I am content
in this house with its liquid gold sunshine
with the ones I adore, so easy to love
full, extraordinarily deep breaths of life
In this contentment
art seems shy
Unable, it seems,
to find a way to celebrate the exquisite delight of living
So afraid of maudlin sentiment
voices speaking of the impossibility of perpetual happiness
survivors guilt from an easy life
Pages lay empty and dry of words
aching for the strokes of a restless paramour's pen
While I blow happy kisses to the wind

Tuesday, 28 January 2014

Small Stones

Last night
I lay in the comforts of my bed
Under a roof that no one would call a mansion
a space I share with moths, and shrews, and leaking taps
but whose air is filled with peace, and freedom, and choice
On the little screen of my fancy phone,
I watched
across the world
Cruel hearts stone her slender body
the beautiful blue silk of her covering blowing fiercely in the wind
stirring the vigor of the hundreds gathered around her
Until it is as red and limp as she
The label of her exact transgression I do not know
but I suspect its much more innocent
than the smell of my lovers skin that still lingers on my pillow
This is not like me to watch such things
Choose not to be a spectator of the awfulness of this world
Try instead to be a celebrator of the beauty
Tonight my body and heart feel bruised and lost
How do the little stones of love that I toss to my world
so far from hers
change anything?

Thursday, 2 January 2014

A Year in Photos

On the cusp of the day I will shift my years
from 34 to 35
I am tired of myself
I say this with no ill will
or harshness
(for I will treasure this book and the tenacity it represents)
Its not the core of me I speak of
just the exploration of the outside of me
the moods of me
the 365 moments of me that I've piled up this year
It is time to set that all aside
and just be.
Dig instead
into life.
Wrap my arms about the world
(and maybe my legs too)
Fall madly in love with everything
in front of me
I know who I am again
amidst the layers of days
that became a year,
I found her
Me who always was.
Silly me for thinking she was ever
Thank you to all who were along for the ride, I couldn't have done it with out you!