hearts quaver
in somber wake
of laggard lapses,
a crystal clarity

all faith denied

minds slow and sedate
in earnest repose
free of unseemly query

bodies recoil,
horror vivid
and unyielding,
incautious and unwise

darkness

sparing none

Grit sustains me.
I hold on both soft and tight,
a self-embrace unlike no other.
Conspirators
seek to overlay
to coexist
amid my red-blue veins,
these emanating cords of my within.

My words belong to me.

Mine to invert as I please.
Mine to wrestle, to subjugate
to contemplate, to savor.
Mine to coalesce toward
my own redress.
Others’ steely wits resolve to upend
yet I remain true.

That lovely muscle
that beats for —and of — me,
moving toward
benign forbearing,
loyalty to self: rewarded.
These peaceful pebbles glisten just for me.

I care not if for no other.

Sitting in a cushion-comfy Adirondack
in the shade of two white oak trees and a beloved maple,
I peer into the thick green canopy overhead,
the gentle sway of leaves in the late-day breeze
mesmerizing in its own right.

Bisecting a slender stem of new growth,
a small, textbook-perfect acorn catches my eye.
I love the solitary position of this tiny specimen
tucked among the umbrella of spirally orchestrated leaves.

Are there more, I wonder?

I sit quietly, focusing on each quadrant of the crown.
Looking past the gestalt of this god of thunder,
I drill down to each branch, each twig, each leaf.

I am patient.

Then, I find it. Another acorn,
a branch or two higher,
just to the right of the first one.
Two of them. Might I detect a third?
I do. Then a fourth, and a fifth.
Clusters of acorns, too, become apparent.

My discerning eye begins to see.
The longer I sit here,
persistent and with intent,
the more I start to notice.

Birds also enter the range of this fresh, new vision.
They stop at the feeder, oblivious to my presence,
a nod to how motionless I’ve become in my revelry.
Sparrows striped in buff, black, brown.
Purple finches, red-winged blackbirds, a spectacular male cardinal.
At the base of the maple, a mourning dove returns my inquisitive stare.
I burrow deeper. I enjoy their song.

Bella greets each new day
B.O.A. — Bored On Arrival.
Cashmere closets no longer inspire.
Morning mimosas have become blasé.
Angkor Wat – what a snooze.
Yosemite, Yemen, Yellowstone?

Yawn.

DIY violent death?
Google search engine
In full throttle
Messy, macabre.
Might just be memorable.

Looking, looking…

Here’s one she finds particularly amusing: Pomegranate Razor Smoothies

Bella, I wouldn’t go there if I was you.

permission granted to float
buoyed spirits now soaring
wave upon wave
hectares of ocean
turquoise, wide sea
dreams corralled
nurtured
sustained
keel-hauled trappings
illustrious currents
moon shining across the water
coconut palms, indigo flight

calm, calm

A wealth
A dearth
A what
A who

Where you go
The things you do

I strive to hope
To have
To be.

You stay you.
And I’ll play me.