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

My skin, no longer youthful,
Glows and shimmers from the life we share.

My eyes sparkle with laughter,
Our language of love.

My hair, better behaved, all growed up
Older now. Wiser.

My heart hums, oh how content. It revels in you,
I bask in your adoration.

My mind — such mess! — grows ever thankful
You inhabit my life.

You make me feel beautiful.
Therefore, it must be so.

Today marks my fifth year of blogging on the WordPress platform. I still recall the hesitation – and anxiety – I felt when I first started to toy with the idea of creating a blog.

What would I write about? Did I have anything to say? If I threw this party, would anyone come?

While I’ve grown my reader base over the years, my numbers and stats are hardly phenomenal. But that doesn’t matter to me in the least. I’ve met some wonderfully talented and witty folks along the way and discovered incredible artists, writers, poets and photographers from all over the world. For me, that is reward enough.

Thank you to all who follow A Sawyer’s Daughter, who comment and like and continue to inspire me every time I open my Reader to see what others are up to.

Here are some of my favorite posts from the past year. As always, THANK YOU for looking!!

https://asawyersdaughter.com/2018/06/29/meteorology/

https://asawyersdaughter.com/2018/06/27/nature-calls/

https://asawyersdaughter.com/2018/06/19/cees-bw-photo-challenge-trains-and-tracks/

https://asawyersdaughter.com/2018/07/20/friday-flower-89/

https://asawyersdaughter.com/2018/07/05/alphabet-puke/

https://asawyersdaughter.com/2018/09/28/11036/

https://asawyersdaughter.com/2018/09/21/3-am/

https://asawyersdaughter.com/2018/09/20/cees-bw-photo-challenge-trees/

https://asawyersdaughter.com/2018/10/24/in-my-fathers-office/

https://asawyersdaughter.com/2018/12/27/why-i-shant-be-gorging-on-caviar-toasted-ritz-crackers-in-gold-plated-clawfoot-tubs-anytime-soon/

https://asawyersdaughter.com/2019/03/28/mrs-haukoo/

https://asawyersdaughter.com/2019/03/13/poetry-club-critique/

Shy skeletons never cross
busy highways come midnight
with the prospect of corn mush
for breakfast,
soft-boiled eggs
neatly tucked inside
crisp linen napkins,
finely pressed
with razor-thin creases —
no kitchen messes,
no slop to mop up,
no vittles to fetch
or firewood to stack
in the far reaches
of bitter cold corners
of widowed shelters
run haphazard
and crosswise
every blasted December.

Eerie lights
shine in
many a mysterious
manner,
regardless of your philosophy
or take on life.

And that’s a fact.

These Boots Are Made for Walking
Mom’s torn bloody blue dress
Quentin Collins: Dad asks Are you in love?

German chocolate cake
Catechism and First Communion
Fingers pointed skyward in prayer

Upstairs closets
Hidden treasures
Games children play

McCulloch chain saw’s whine
Dad’s big blade, its morning growl
How he made his living

Sizzle and stink
Wet woolen mittens
Rusted red-hot furnace drum

Blizzard revelries
Snow tunnels in howling darkness
Snapshots of forgotten strangers, stranded for the night

Rats in the brooder house
Gutted Brown Swiss
Suspended in air, the winch from Dad’s boom truck

Sponge for adult gossip
Me, glued to the kitchen table
Women whirling drinks, inhaling their cigarettes

Who I was
where I came from
what I might have become