20 Lines A Day

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Shiny Things

The newness wore off
like an old penny you put
in your pocket and forgot
about, chasing the next
shiny thing.  You didn’t
mean to lose interest, but
there was so much to see and do,
how could you be expected
to stay in one place, to hold
this moment in your gaze for
any longer than you did?  The time
you had was long enough,
enough to create beautiful
moments, explore cities and
beaches, soak up the excitement
and agony of being alive, until
you weren’t, until the plane
on which you flew was no longer
part of the world the rest of us
call home, and the shiny things no
longer distracted you, for
everything was glimmering and
whole, like you

©SpiritLed 2014


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The Healing Parts

The healing parts are mighty and wild,
careening through the dark mind,
simultaneously passive and angry,
they take you over, consume your soul.

They hunger for affection, else they grow
a life of their own, they thrive on tenderness,
else they join together to conquer
their demons with your pain.

The healing parts want to survive,
as the soul writhing in the night.
They are displaced and dissociated,
and only love returns them home,
validation of their realness,
so they may quench their fires,
no longer reduce you to ashes from the
inside out.

The healing parts are us,
and we, them. We are the parts
we buried deep so long ago, the voice
silenced and the voice raging, the broken, fragile,
lonely, fearful, hurting, hating parts.  We are healing
and we are real.

©SpiritLed 2014


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Regeneration

2014-03-21 13.59.20-1

Though spring has not yet blessed the trees with blossom, passing through
the woods this day, the sullen bareness of the dead tree among the living
draws my eye, its branches, like a skeleton, support the life nearby,
a chorus of creatures sing their dirges, oblivious that I have
trespassed in their woods, while the tree stands at attention and the world
goes on around, and through, exchanges its own life for hollow emptiness

No shame in being dead, for once you were alive,
and now you still bring grace and beauty,
no need for those around you to forget, to bury you or
avert their eyes from your emptiness

No, the world goes on, life goes on, better than perhaps before,
trickling rain, singing wind, crackling of your deathly limbs,
ruddy run-off water meandering across the path,
these create the harmonies that push life forward

©SpiritLed 2014


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Thirty-Nine

Today I turn 39.  My last year in my 30’s.  If I had my nearly 4 decades to do over, I’d stay home with my kids, which is a total contradiction because I hated staying at home when they were very young.  Now I’d do it all over again and for longer, just for more time with them.  I’d go to graduate school the first time I had the chance.  I’d go back to that first relationship in high school, and I’d say no to that boy.  Yes, it would change the course of my life, but I’d avoid the pain of losing a friend.  I’d make and keep better connections with friends of my parents and my extended family.  I had no idea how much I would wish I knew them better as I got older.   I’d demand more of myself.  The status quo and self pity would never be in my coping toolbox.  I’d learn about self care early on and make it a priority.  I’d stop myself from picking up terrible interpersonal habits that negatively affect my relationships.  My poor husband really has to deal with a lot of baggage.  I’d let people get close to me, I’d be more vulnerable.  And I’d expect it of other people too.  I’d take back every mean word I ever said to my sister.  Maybe we were just kids, but I’m sure it affected her, and she’s the only sibling I have.  I’d set better boundaries for myself, and I wouldn’t be afraid to say no.  I wouldn’t find a sick comfort in relationships that make me feel bad.  I’d talk to my mom about her illness, I’d share my fears about living a life without her.  I’d snuggle up next to her that night when she asked me to.   I’d understand that in order to feel great joy and compassion, you also, at times, have to allow yourself to feel great pain.  I’d never stop writing.  Or dancing.  Or letting the world know how smart I am.  Or crying.  I’d cry a LOT more.  And I’d pray more.  I’d figure out early what makes me passionate and pursue that.  Or not stop pursuing that.  I’d have a job that I love, that fulfills me, that I can’t wait to get up and do every morning.  I’d force my foot into that Cinderella slipper and never let it fall off my foot.

“Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.”

~Henry David Thoreau

Happy 39.  It’s going to be a great year.

©SpiritLed 2014


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Birth Day

In a parlor plain and
solemn, a small crowd huddles
Tomorrow I celebrate
one more year, today
I attend my friend’s
final life celebration

Funerals produce in me
a subtle sense of asphyxiation
and I sit in the quiet chapel,
in this room full of acquaintances
and strangers, barely breathing
for fear I might explode
into unending tears

But the moon rising in my heart
speaks of fullness and cycles,
and creates in me a curious juxtaposition

and a shift happens, a veil lifts to reveal
awareness that death is life anew,
that as one celebrates birth
another now possesses a freedom
that earthly souls can only imagine

Rest in Peace, my friend,
and also my yesterday self,
for today we both start anew
and tomorrow as well,

fulfilled in the knowledge
that neither death nor birth
signify an end or a beginning

but rather each day is a new path
in our personal eternity,
one more step in the journey
of Divine life

© SpiritLed 2014


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slide through silk

By Jonathan McCallum

“snow” by Jonathan McCallum

crossing freshly fallen trail of

snow,

skis slide through silk,

snow,

falling light,

snow,

moon bright,

snow,

welcoming fireside cottage,

snow.

Poem by Jonathan McCallum @peoplepoesia Poetry Blog

Would you also consider allowing me to write a poem about you? See the Living Poetry gallery helping to promote the international work of Girl Rising.

"With Tears" by Jonathan McCallum


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With Tears

“Tears” by Jonathan McCallum

Seventy?

Tears pool, brim and flow onto hands that grasped liquid sweet moments.

Memories frozen into brilliant waterfall within.

Towards my soul’s canyon, your light pours in, revealing precious faces, kind eyes, little hands briefly held.

Traveling through childhood’s mist, middle life forest to foggy old age to reveal a distant eternal land.

With tears. Just seventy years?

Poem by Jonathan McCallum @peoplepoesia


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The Past

The past is not fallen leafs;
it is dirt blanketing newly planted seeds.

It is a crack in the window
causing the afternoon sun
to rainbow across my wall,
allowing November’s cold to seep in.

The past is the eye lash fallen on cheek,
a turned up carpet and door with broken deadbolt,
a watch stopped five minutes till 3.

Sometimes the past comes back.
It scratches at door,
curls around fires,
lays in my bed.

In the clarity of reminiscence
I see what I have been looking away from.
It is stark and it is clear.

The past does not haunt me,
I haunt it.

A lingering scent,
a familiar hand brushed upon the small of my back,
I am always leaving pieces of myself behind
waiting for others to catch up.

I wonder what it is about me
that is so easy to let go.

I must let the past solidify,
mold it into perpetual bricks,
and mend broken windows
until my house can stand.


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Street corners

Prostitute Approaching Car on City Street

sounds of revelry 
spatters
the night
split skirts
ride high on corners
trading skin for money

eyes of youth through
windows stare to lie on backs
open legs - knees bent

MISCHIEF

 ~ but never kiss

the lowly have it tougher
battering or death, risks
lined up on the street 
calling 'honey what you want'

are they empty

remembering

the little girls they were
and how they sell themselves
exhibiting their wares
but who am I to judge

the top girls don't have corners 
there's no mayhem in their world
unlike the street lamp hussling
tease and flaunt their 'goods'

they do 'a job', as I do mine
and who am I to say
this is how they live their life
from day ..to day..to day

©jmtacken Sep 2013


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So Busy Doing Nothing At All

Originally posted on Living and Lovin:

Do you have times in your life where you seem to be very busy but are really doing nothing at all.

How did my life get so simple?

I used to blog everyday.

I made Jewelry every week.

I walked the beaches all winter long and early summer mornings and captured the Sunrises along the Atlantic.

I went away in March and came back profoundly changed and at peace. So much so I don’t do much of anything really.

Yes I wake after 4 or 5 hours of sleep and have two cups of coffee, fresh ground. I eat a simple good for me breakfast as I answer emails play a game of words on Facebook all the while tossing a toy to JT. Then I wash up the few dishes sweep the floors and make the bed. I shower and get dressed and grab my camera JT grabs her…

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united love

winds blowing soft , our union unyielding

we ramble like kids

united love , we’re shielding

wandering through presence we laugh and we cry

never really knowing

exactly the whys

perfection our goal , our long-lost conclusion

youth has been lost

the new-found illusion

finale grows near , as finally we see

love depends on two things

that’s you and that’s me

Love for Arts

 

 

 


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I Close my eyes

IMG_0051

The flight of life, all I am or hope to be. I close my eyes.

I am a child, turning as I look for signs of growing up,

then a teen, swirling in front of a mirror,

dreaming of college, midnights out, no curfew.

Suddenly, I awake to the sound of wedding music

and then a baby cries as I shake my head.

The laundry awaits, my feet hurt.

Life, where is it going, it used to seems so slow.

Now I’m bandaging skinned knees, paying mortgages.

I see my teen swirling in front of a mirror.

I find myself looking at the obituaries in the paper.

I notice a little gray in my husbands hair.

Graduations, weddings, then accidents, surgeries,

my back hurts when I garden all day, the house needs repair.

I cry at the tombstones of my parents,

suddenly becoming aware of my own age,

Life, speeding by at the speed of light.

Computers have replaced the written word.

I feel outdated, like I don’t belong here anymore.

Struggling to keep up, I feel the desperation of loosing my edge.

Yesterday, I was young, had hope, dreams, health.

I remember whirling in the wind beneath the moon,

Oceans waves crashing behind me, the bright lights of town

glowing distantly, calling to me, “Come, live, love!”

Now it is nighttime, winter, cold and bare.

The dreams have been fulfilled or died long ago.

I try to imagine where it all went, how it got away,

A tear rolls down a weathered cheek. I close my eyes once more.


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They Needed Me As Much As I needed Them/Daily Prompt: Silver Linings

Originally posted on Living and Lovin:

I was still injured but I needed a job.

I used to drive a “big rig”  but then I was hit,  by that bus.

I went through the savings which were sadly,  as in most case, s never enough.

I saw an Ad in a local paper for a Special Needs School Bus Driver,  surely I could drive a small van.

I applied for the position and they could clearly see my wounds but it was the ones inside that hurt the worst.
Due to my physical injuries I was given the troubled youths to transport to schools where they did not want to attend.

Many never even bothered  to get up and shower and dress for the day,  never mind step into the van.  Very sad.

One by one as they entered my school bus I introduced myself,  the one with the huge blue knee brace on.

I asked…

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Cell Phone Rose

Cell Phone Rose SBI was walking out the front door and noticed the Mr. Lincoln rose was particularly beautiful. I used my cell phone to snap a pic. The water droplets didn’t come through as crisp as I would have liked…you can see the sheen of the droplets. This rose is a fragrant reminder of my mom’s love of roses. First generated in 1964, the rose was transplanted from my folk’s house after their deaths and the sale of their home.

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