Posted on April 12, 2013 by Seonaid
I think I left my skin somewhere.
How else to explain
This longing, yearning
To return to
To crawl through the undergrowth
Scales tingling with
Oh, to eat
To fly, knowing that
This is all there is!
To leap, fully alive,
From the depths and
come crashing down
All thirty glorious TONS of me!
There must have been a skin lost.
Perhaps I left it up that tree,
Or in the glade where they
Humiliation has a way of causing
Maybe it is hiding in the corner of some playground,
Under a pile of leaves,
Trying to figure out the teasing
Rules. You, not you. Take
I slip into it sometimes: one Perfect outfit.
Look into the mirror and sigh with
recognition. Ah, yes! That’s me.
Look at me there! Tall and glorious and
exuberant and loud.
How do we live our lives like this, in
skins two sizes too small? Always afraid of
Moving too fast,
Breathing too deeply,
Stretching too high for fear of
Filed under: Creative Writing, WorldView | Tagged: discipline, poem, self | Leave a Comment »
Posted on February 15, 2013 by Seonaid
In a clearing in the woods
On a cliff overlooking the ocean
In a cave in the mountains
She has the answer you seek,
In the hut,
In the cottage,
In the cave
You would not notice her
If you passed her in the street.
She has mastered the art of
Along with a dozen other Wisdoms,
Both ancient and modern.
But if you seek her earnestly,
Let down your guard enough
to see through her drab glamour,
you will find her.
There, in her cottage, she will say,
Shuffling toward you
With the already-brewed pot,
“Yes, yes. I’ve been expecting you.
I have just the thing, over here.
Give me a minute.”
She will tell you a Story as she
riffles through the books,
“No. Not quite the one.
Oh… I remember this… (staring off into the distance)
Ah, yes. Here it is.” (Tap, tap, tap…)
Listen to the story. You will need it
Filed under: Rural Living | Tagged: feminism, myth, poem, truth, witches | 1 Comment »
Posted on May 10, 2012 by Seonaid
I swear I will get back to prose some day. But the poems are waking me up. So I write them down.
Sometimes, The Wind
Sometimes when I leave my home
With six things perfectly balanced,
The door is torn from my hand
And I rail.
The wind, the wind!
It is a character in our little dramas,
Played out at the hardware store,
Fingers tracing the lines
Of coveted outdoor objects.
But. The Wind. (he reminds me)
And dreams are left unpurchased,
The trappings of another life.
One unconstrained by. All. This. Wind.
Later that day,
Gazing out upon the whitecaps at play
Upon the river,
Wondering in silence how long it will be before
we lose so many pieces of the roof that we can’t ignore it
“Is it the Mistral that is said to drive people
I know the answer.
It is not a new conversation.
“Yes,” he says,
And puts his arms around me from behind,
Gazing out upon
The whitecaps at play.
Filed under: Creative Writing, Rural Living | Tagged: poem, wind | 3 Comments »
Posted on April 30, 2012 by Seonaid
The Dawn of Understanding (I Hope)
At the point of urgency,
The call to action,
When I Know that
Everything I’ve done until Now
Has been mere Preparation for this
It happens that I Stop.
And I realize that
Those moments of mere
(in their time)
the Most Important Thing.
Filed under: WorldView | Tagged: poem, time | Leave a Comment »
Posted on January 19, 2012 by Seonaid
“I must have missed this day,”
Trying to coax sugar-water,
into my daughter’s sick
I think that, sometimes.
Maybe a sick day cost me
The essential knowledge of
How to find my Right Life,
Retrieve my missing Socks, or
Live with the consequences of
Breaking someone’s heart
To save my own.
But I’m glad I got the lessons on
Boosting a Car,
Knowing True Love when it finds you,
Easing a Seam.
Those have come in handy.
Making a White Sauce,
Balancing my Cheque Book and
Doing the Work before going out to Play.
Although I think
They might have been
about that last one.
Filed under: Creative Writing, Day-to-Day, WorldView | Tagged: lessons, life, poem | 1 Comment »
Posted on June 28, 2011 by Seonaid
By The Highway
On the rock wall
Crazed, lined with vertical
Remnants of the process
by which tons of rock
ancient beyond reckoning
were blasted away
The bleary, beery
late night spray-job
echoes back the builders’
I was here.
Filed under: WorldView | Tagged: poem | Leave a Comment »
Posted on May 9, 2011 by Seonaid
Oddly enough, this was written in one of my better moods.
When I Die
Do not mark my passage with marble,
Turn towards the light.
Do not hold my bones hostage
In iron and lead
Or cage my form in a chemical bath.
These atoms are not me.
Where I am going,
No body has been.
Donations can be made in my name,
But not to whatever killed me.
Give water to those who thirst,
Give food to those in need,
Give shelter to those who strive for warmth,
Give solace to the young who need it most.
If they have half the life I’ve led,
half the joy I’ve felt,
They will know the meaning.
Lay me to rest in some wood,
Or in a meadow of your choosing.
Let me run down to the sea,
Slowly, over a million years. Let me
Rejoin the bones of the earth.
Do not mark my passage with marble,
Let me depart in mystery.
Filed under: WorldView | Tagged: poem, PostADay2011 | 2 Comments »
Posted on April 5, 2011 by Seonaid
Advice from the Inner Critic
Love’s been done to death.
Nobody’s had anything new to say
In 60 generations.
And how do you plan to avoid
Running mouse-like through
The maze of metaphors?
No. Best to steer clear,
Dance around the edges.
Leave love to the experts.
Filed under: WorldView | Tagged: love, poem, PostADay2011, self, Writing | 2 Comments »
Posted on February 4, 2011 by Seonaid
Cast off the shackles of belonging.
There is no You to hide from
There is only perfect knowledge
of Beauty and Truth
Cloaked in 7000 generations
Filed under: WorldView | Tagged: poem | 1 Comment »
Posted on January 29, 2011 by Seonaid
Flatten your tummy.
Get rid of belly fat.
Get the abs you’ve always dreamed of.
With this one magic secret.
And if that doesn’t work,
And you’ve gone the way of the
10,000 sit ups and
One thousand and one pilates classes
And yoga just isn’t doing it for you,
And neither did the grapefruit diet
or the GI, or low-fat, low-carb, low-everything
(except time, effort, and cost)
There is always
Or, when you find yourself perplexed by this extra flesh,
Patting yourself down in front of the mirror,
You could hear the love of your child’s voice,
The one who admires the soft tummy,
(Soft, even for a pillow)
Who falls asleep, tucked around the love, the soft
The belly from which zie came,
The belly and the child inextricably bound
After this time apart.
Filed under: Creative Writing | Tagged: poem, PostADay2011, the body | Leave a Comment »