My poem came true

As I lay in bed, gazing up at yet another cloudy day through my skylight, a poem came to me. It was a gift, lifting my spirits, the words coming to me again after what seemed to be such a long absence. And as the day started to wake up, the clouds melted away like cotton candy, and I was blessed with the sunny day I wrote of at the end of my poem.

Sky

 

For days on end

I see a blanket sky

A white shroud above me

Draped over the blue

And the sun hides under the covers

Sometimes the moon peeks out at night

But then it quickly hides again

Along with all the stars

They play hide and seek with me

I hear them giggle like little children

 

Maybe the sky is more like a blank canvas

All raw and white

Ready for the artist to begin

Alright, I will paint the sky purple

Like my purple robe that lays at the end of my bed

No, I’ve decided on blue, the usual color of the sky

Like my blue yoga mat that sits in the corner

But that’s much too predictable and safe

Now the sky becomes bright green

Like the green rain jacket I wear

When the sky sheds its tears

And it cries here quite often

I try not to cry along with it

As I wait for the sky to fold up its blanket

And dazzle me with the true blue brilliance

Of sunny days

 

Water washes over me

During my life thus far, I have experienced water in all its forms; rain, snow, sleet, hail – all the conditions that encompass the oath of the ever faithful mail carrier to complete their appointed rounds. I was born and raised in water friendly Minnesota, lovingly described on its license plates as the “Land of 10,000 Lakes”. It makes for a stunning landscape, all those lakes, with Lake Superior calling to me with its siren song of immense beauty. But I soon grew tired of the frozen form of water, the snow that would blanket the ground each winter, and the winter of 2010/2011 was like some kind of cruel marathon that Mother Nature seemed to be running. After cleaning snow off my car in mid-April, I wrote a poem lamenting the endless winter and set my sights westward. I could now hear the ocean calling me, just like when you hold a shell to your ear and hear the roar of the waves. And I had a vision of the Oregon coast, so clear in my mind. It wasn’t pretty and sun drenched like the Southern California coast. No, my ocean was cloudy and windy, with waves that angrily rolled in, all cold and foamy. And once I moved to Portland, and made my first trip to the coast, I saw my vision revealed to me in all its splendor. Yes, there is plenty of water here, in the form of rain. And yes, there has even been a bit of the white stuff too! But as I make my way through the rainy season here, I just remind myself that all those lovely drops of water falling down are what brings the green of the leaves, the colors of the flowers, and I drench myself in the luscious color palette of this place I now call home.

Whining About Winter

The snow, the snow

The endless snow!

In December, white crystals fall

Like jewels from heaven

In March, angry pellets of white

Are shot from hell

Pristine mountains of gathered flakes

That once glistened pure and bright

Are now dreary gray burial mounds

When will the melting commence?

To reveal the earth’s hidden palette of colors

As days march triumphantly towards spring

The sun cautiously creeps closer to the earth

It dares to stay a little longer

With each passing day

Come! Stay awhile!

Don’t be shy, we implore

And the sun finally agrees

To stop hiding like a frightened rabbit behind winter

And leaps like a graceful deer into spring

Chasing the snow into the ground

It lifts up sleeping life from once frozen dirt

The Pull of the Waves

How is it that I feel

Deep within my being

This pull of the waves

A body of water

Ocean, sea

Miles away

From my body

Yet my soul

Plants its feet in the sand

And I wait

For the water to rush over me

Rolling waves

Now I float on them

Rocking in a cradle

 Swaying in my lover’s arms

The waves enfold me

A wet, salty blanket

Drifting off in a daydream

Blissful remembrance

Of how the water

Delights

The Changing Moods of Water

 

Water

Changing forms

Liquid drops of rain

Flakes of snow

Blanket of fog

Billowy clouds

Icy sheets on the river

Water floating upon water

Seared by the sun

Water warms

Water melts

Fondled by winter’s breeze

Droplets cease to fall

They hang suspended

Moments frozen

Tousled by the wind

Waves leap and cavort

In fits of rage they destroy

Yet water is liquid life

Nourishing our bodies

Quenching our thirst

It mimics the goddess Kali

A bearer of life

A destroyer of life

When made aware of its duality

We gain respect for water

And it’s ever changing moods

Color crayons and poems

One of my childhood joys was having the big box of 64 bright and colorful Crayola crayons. My artistic skills have always been lacking; I am a drawer of stick people only. But I found I loved to color! And as an adult, I still love to color! Not too long ago I took a trip down memory lane and bought myself a brand new box of those 64 freshly sharpened sticks of wax that used to delight me. Then I found a coloring book for “older” kids, assuming they meant me, with letters of the alphabet depicted in groups of flowers. I have spent joy filled moments, creating my works of art. And the joy of coloring is the freedom in choosing whatever colors you wish – bluebells do not have to be blue, nor do orchids have to be colored with the crayon labeled “orchid”. Last year I volunteered for a time with a 7th grade English class, helping them with reading skills as well as writing poetry. One of the poetry assignments was to pick a color and write a poem about it, using the five senses as lines of the poem in describing the chosen color. I took it upon myself to do the assignment also when I got home, writing about my favorite color, and here is the result…  What color would you write about?

Blue

My color is blue

Blue looks like the shifting color of the sky

as night turns to day

Blue sounds like the slow, lingering notes

of a gentle trumpet

Blue smells like freshly washed clothes all in a line

hanging to dry in the breeze

Blue tastes like the cold, wet crunch

of a popsicle as it melts in my mouth

Blue feels like the rolling waves of the sea

that come to shift the sand

Blue is my color