Wordless Wednesday ~ snow white

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Half Life

We likely all know the trope of whether a half-filled glass of water is half full or half empty. In truth, the glass is completely full: half water and half air. Both are vital to our survival. 

Like the cycles of the moon, our lives are said to wax and wane. Coming into my seventh decade, I am by force of nature inarguably waning, and yet my life is full to overflowing. As the cycle continues, I am quite curious as to where I will find myself at my own next new moon. 

whole moon half-hidden

wax and wane like hide and seek

steadfast in the sky

For dVerse prompt: Haibun Monday ~ Mezza Luna

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Magnet Poem #4

a lazy rain-beat symphony,

luscious and raw through shadowy mist.

a forest sings of dreams and time,

and I recall

how sweet spring moonlight smells.

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Murmur Murmur

Well, it’s been awhile, hasn’t it? But here I am, back in Stanza-land, and what better way to come back than a writing prompt from the folks at dVerse? Today, Sarah challenges us to choose from a number of paintings by artist Lee Madgwick, and use the painting as inspiration for an original poem.

I will post the painting below, but first, the poem.

Murmuration refers to the phenomenon that results when hundreds, sometimes thousands, of starlings fly in swooping, intricately coordinated patterns through the sky.


Murmur Murmur

Murmur, murmur, murmuration.
Endless swirling iterations.
By what compelled? No explanation.
I won’t venture speculation.

Like pointillistic illustration,
a thousandfold their compilation.
As one they dance their presentation,
and none claim “leader” designation.

At dusk they merge, no hesitations;
mingling, calling salutations.
This roiling mass staves off predation
as they scope night’s destination.

Starling flock cooperation;
flights that defy computation.
I murmur my appreciation.
Murmur, murmur, murmuration.

Murmuration, by Lee Madgwick
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Wordless Wednesday ~ 6/15/22

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Wordless Wednesday ~ 6/1/22

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In the Stars

I was debating with my daughter the other day as to whether I might be an alien, (something to do with my long toes), and I was reminded of this piece I wrote in 2013 for my original (now defunct) blog. As I am the master of my own blog — if not my own destiny — I decided to post it again. Herewith:

Psychic Revelation

You’re not going to believe this… well, maybe you are. I didn’t at first, but now the notion is kind of growing on me.

You see, I just found out that I’m from another planet. Maybe even another star system. It’s a little hard to wrap my mind around the idea, but it would sure explain a lot.

I had a reading with a psychic yesterday, and among other (very accurate) things, she told me that I was an old soul (I’ve always felt that), and that I was a “star seed.” I’d never heard of a star seed. The psychic indicated that I had a lot of “homework” to do to get up to speed on all of this, so as soon as the reading was over, I ran right to my computer to research the whole matter.

The Sirius Temple of Ascension website tells us that “Star Seeds are beings that have experienced life elsewhere in the Universe on other planets and in non-physical dimensions other than on Earth,” although they may have had previous life times on earth as well.

Old soul star seeds are “Guardians of the earth” and have usually had “hundreds of life times on earth going back to the beginning of humanity” or even the beginning of earth. The life missions of old soul star seeds are “tied into the long term evolution of earth and humanity” and so they have incarnated on earth multiple times to fulfill relevant “projects.” Once the projects are completed, the old soul star seeds discontinue their cycles of lifetimes.

The psychic indicated that my purpose was related to healing. She mentioned Reiki (a form of hands on energy healing) and I told her that I was, indeed, a Reiki practitioner. The conversation somehow got sidetracked there when she said that my cats didn’t want me to give them Reiki because they were evolved beyond that and so they just roll their eyes when I try it on them.

I was so astounded at the idea of my cats rolling their eyes at me that I forgot to pursue the whole old soul star seed topic any further in our discussion. My subsequent research, however, turned up some tests that one can take to determine whether or not they are a star seed. My favorite is the Starseed Quiz. It consists of 100 questions and the nifty part about it is that the computer calculates your score at the end.

Some of the questions that intrigued me:

“As a child, did you have an imaginary friend?” I had three. Didn’t everyone?

“When alone & indoors, have you ever worked or studied in the nude?” That would be a “no” for me. Eww!

“Do you have a blank space/or unusually high level of memory of your early childhood years?” My memory of my whole life is pretty blank, not just my childhood. Not sure what that might indicate.

“Do you like tapioca?” Well, yeah! What’s not to like?

“If offered a choice of meeting a celebrity or an alien ~ would you choose the alien?” I wasn’t convinced this had to be an either/or question. I’d personally like to meet a celebrity alien.

The results of my test indicated that it definitely could maybe be a possibility that I am indeed a star seed.

So what am I going to do with this newfound information? Well, my cats can forget sitting on my lap for Reiki any time soon, that’s for sure. But I may need to do some further investigating into the rest of it. Even though I am poking fun at it, who am I to say what is and isn’t within the realm of Universal possibility?

I mean, tapioca seldom lies.

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Wordless Wednesday ~ Colorado III

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NaPoWriMo Day Three. Today’s prompt:

“This one is a bit complex, so I saved it for a Sunday. It’s a Spanish form called a “glosa” – literally a poem that glosses, or explains, or in some way responds to another poem. The idea is to take a quatrain from a poem that you like, and then write a four-stanza poem that explains or responds to each line of the quatrain, with each of the quatrain’s four lines in turn forming the last line of each stanza. Traditionally, each stanza has ten lines, but don’t feel obligated to hold yourself to that! Here’s a nice summary of the glosa form to help you get started.”

Here goes:

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

from If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

If no memorial service is held for me

upon my timely (or otherwise) demise,

that is fine.

My preference is to be

memorable — hopefully in a good way–

rather than memorialized.

If I’m forgotten altogether, that is fine, too.

I’ll have forgotten you, if slowly as my mind dims, or

in the event of an unfortunate outcome,

if suddenly.

But why speak of death?

There are so many other ways

to be forgotten.

I am not ashamed to admit:

I forget most people, places, and

happenstances that come my way,

so it is only fair–

if fairness is a thing–

that once our paths diverge,

you forget me.

Thinking out loud now,

though you’re not here to hear me,

perhaps it’s best to be forgotten.

Life is not about me, after all.

Instead, please remember

all things living, plant and animal,

whose demise we can stay,

or at least delay.

Look for these opportunities.

Do not look for me.

So many of us have forgotten our way,

or even our why.

We have forgotten our humanity, our decency.

These things I will try to remember,

and perhaps by remembering them

and practicing humility and kindness,

I will indeed become memorable.

Regardless, when I’m gone, please

allow me to slip from your mind,

for I shall already have forgotten you.

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Bird Talk

Day Two NaPoWriMo prompt: Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on a word featured in a tweet from Haggard Hawks, an account devoted to obscure and interesting English words. 

I used the tweet pictured below, which gave the words for the sounds certain birds make.

Herewith, my poem:

Oh, Dr. Seuss, you silly goose,

you loved to glacitate.

You wrote that owls go hoo hoo hoo.

In truth, they cucubate.

Your nonsense rhymes, those made-up words,

a lazy way to write.

So many real words just as fun,

and downright erudite.

A rooster doesn’t “cock-a-doodle do”

when he cucuriates.

And the hen’s response might well be “cluck,”

but — to rhyme — she glocidates.

Toward “wockets in pockets” I hold no grudge,

but to my ear, it grates;

like the striddly stry of a peacock’s cry

when it so poopity pupillates.

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