In a cast iron skillet, add:
their negative comments
crass looks
middle fingers
curse words
belittlement
bullying
judgements
betrayal
lies
venom
Do NOT let the ingredients boil over, cause a fire, or ruin the pan (you might need it later)
Let simmer for 5 minutes to a near lifetime
until the mixture boils down to nothing but serenity (ignore the initial stench)
Hint: The less it stews, the more time you have for adding fresher vegetables
photo credit
I just had a birthday
but they say it’s been a year
so I am here
standing strong
a thumbs up and a cheer.
Fifteen years ago, I wrote an entry in my journal about turning 45. Soon afterward, I copied the pages and turned it into a piece of art. I painted a journal (the image is flat) then made it three-dimensional by coating a separate piece of card stock with gesso. I glued it so it would protrude from the canvas.
In the original journal, I wrote how, inside, I was the same person who played guitar at sunsets, had intimate conversations with perfect strangers, and questioned everything about life.
Today, I have more answers. But I will always question.
What I positively know to be true is this–a line from a song:
I have seen His/Her face many times.
And for that, I am forever grateful.
And, as my 28 year-old son once said at the age of two,
And he said this when no music was playing. A lesson to live by.
I measure every Grief I meet With narrow, probing, eyes – I wonder if It weighs like Mine – Or has an Easier size. I wonder if They bore it long – Or did it just begin – I could not tell the Date of Mine – It feels so old a pain – I wonder if it hurts to live – And if They have to try – And whether – could They choose between – It would not be – to die – I note that Some – gone patient long – At length, renew their smile – An imitation of a Light That has so little Oil – I wonder if when Years have piled – Some Thousands – on the Harm – That hurt them early – such a lapse Could give them any Balm – Or would they go on aching still Through Centuries of Nerve – Enlightened to a larger Pain – In Contrast with the Love – The Grieved – are many – I am told – There is the various Cause – Death – is but one – and comes but once – And only nails the eyes – There’s Grief of Want – and grief of Cold – A sort they call “Despair” – There’s Banishment from native Eyes – In sight of Native Air – And though I may not guess the kind – Correctly – yet to me A piercing Comfort it affords In passing Calvary – To note the fashions – of the Cross – And how they’re mostly worn – Still fascinated to presume That Some – are like my own –
photo credit of Emily Dickinson, my FAVORITE poet.
Daily Word Prompt: Enlighten
A meager end of one’s desires
Helpless, falls within the fires
Softly heard the silent pleas
For targets reached with greater ease.
Bemoan the loss of relinquished goals
That lay defeated upon the coals
As sparks take flight and seconds clash
They cruelly wither and turn to ash.
Rising yet above the flame
Release of who or what to blame
To plant again a seed accrued
From hopes of life and dreams renewed.
(My poetry made into a painting)
Daily Prompt: Release
I woke to morn, mouth open wide
yet not in feathered bed
but in a nest atop a tree
and reaching toward the sky
Perched high from ground to take the fruit
wearing but my skin of birth
abrupt and swiftly wisdom flowed
awareness taking root
I wake to morn and wonder meaning
of a message kindly sent
by some wise spirit who had appeared
while I lay deftly dreaming.
(I sketched this the morning after so I would not forget)
No longer can I fill these shoes.
Yet I remember a time
when the patent leather formed neatly around my feet
soft, worn, comfortable
Soles carefree and made of ease
durable for playing chase and hide and seek
or freeze tag in the dark
the lining soft enough for catching fireflies
and my parents goodnight kisses
The tips firm, protecting toes that so easily stumbled.
The heels perfectly made for scuffling
for dragging my feet when it suited
Shoes, easy to pull off for bedtime stories
and tuck-me-in time.
No longer do they fit, those shoes
Yet, it matters not.
I have merely grown into a larger size
the soul intact.
art by C. Dennis-Willingham
You accept not your true self
You stepped, instead
into an guise
and bathed your limbs in bravado
the musky soap of self-deception
Don’t you know
you’re soaked in a false promise
to yourself, unrecognized?
Why shroud yourself in darkness,
within a cloud
of crystalized ice?
Do you not believe in yourself?
Are you afraid of the shadows?
Don’t you know
you’re cloak, soaked in fear
keeps you from paradise?
Shed that tattered, muscled cloak
It never truly keeps you warm.
There is no storm.
photo page source
daily prompt: Cloaked
I’m a full-fledged non-hater
Evil, I’ve fought
A fine moderator
(except when I’m not)
Profound is my mind
It keeps trains of thought
I’m a woman refined
(except when I’m not)
I’m a top-notch debater
find every weak spot
A master creator
(except when I’m not)
I’m the queen idea lighter
weave interesting plots
I’m an excellent writer
(except when I’m not)
I am quick to recover
heal when I ought
I’m an exceptional lover
(except when I’m not)
I’m an fabulous teacher
all subjects I’ve taught
A perfect-made creature?
I accept I am not.
Accepting this non-exceptional self-portrait
Daily Word Prompt: Exceptional
Do not trespass upon my goldmine
try to uncover, take or polish my gems.
It is my shaft of discovery
waiting only for me
It is my quarry.
Why attempt to tend,
cultivate, till, harvest,
tame a terrain not your own?
I planted the seed
It is my terra firma.
Why mold a clay
with fraudulent hands
spinning, forming
on a potters wheel meant solely for me
when I am the potter of my destiny?
To understand my true legend,
I must do these things on my own.
Daily word prompt: Tame
I was too young to remember the times my dad came home with blood on his clothes. It was my older sister who told me how our non-violent mother would cringe at the sight.
Interesting that, even though I was two at the time, my father’s evening work would influence my life and expand my awareness.
The blood wasn’t my dad’s. Not then. His own blood was spilled years before when he boxed for the army.
The blood on my father’s clothes were from young men who, like my father, tried to prove something, make something of themselves in the boxing ring “at a time when boxing mattered.” (Quote by Mark Brown, my first and continuing boxing coach)
(My dad’s in the middle)
Participants of this sport or not, think of the lessons learned in boxing metaphors.
(I keep these 1950’s baby rattles in my boxing bag as a reminder)
Ask yourselves these questions:
— Do you feel trapped? Cornered? Are you UP AGAINST THE ROPES.
Try maneuvering to the center of the ring.
— Do you keep yourself from getting hurt, literally or figuratively? PROTECT YOURSELF AT ALL TIMES.
Do this because, as my dad used to say, “You are your own best friend.”
— Do you care about others? Then you are IN THEIR CORNER.
Make sure you find someone who will be in yours.
— Think you’ve hit bottom? Then you are DOWN FOR THE COUNT.
Do you have the stamina and willpower to get back up even if the odds feel against you?
— Have you gone too far with your criticisms? Then you’ve delivered an illegal A LOW BLOW.
Hurting others will eventually lead to hurting yourself.
— Are you thinking about THROWING IN THE TOWEL? Have you given up?
Sometimes we have to say “enough is enough.” Consider the towel carefully.
— Do you miss dangers coming your way? Do you LET YOUR GUARD DOWN?
How vulnerable are you willing to be?
— Do you ignore rude comments and take adversity in stride? Do you ROLL WITH THE PUNCHES?
Good! Backbones and self-confidence are sure wins.
— Were you luckily interrupted before sh..t hit the fan? Then you were SAVED BY THE BELL.
Who doesn’t love a blessing in disguise?
Because, at the end of the day when the rounds are over, you can kick up your feet and know that you fought even when tired, and you put up a good fight.
(painting by C. Dennis-Willingham)
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 