Wednesday, November 4, 2015

If only...

If I could hold myself
Like a newborn
As though I were
A precious gift
To the world

If I could love myself
Like a toddler
Forgiving mistakes
Expecting only growth
Never perfection

If I could forgive myself
Like a child
Understanding forgiveness
Breeds compassion
And compassion
Breeds understanding

If I could allow myself
The freedom
To feel
To see
To hear
To touch
To speak

Perhaps I would not hold myself
In such contempt

Perhaps I would not be afraid
To accept love

Perhaps I could spend Wednesday nights
In mindfulness



I hate myself

I'm afraid of being loved

And I spent my night seeking mindlessness

Clearly, unsuccessfully.


Monday, October 26, 2015

(I) The leaf

To hear a leaf
It is not
The space around it
Which must be quiet
But your mind

A quiet mind
A special state
Of awareness

How to quiet
The mind?
To the body

The body shares
Earthly intelligence
The mind
So often

To hear a leaf
Share a secret

I'm afraid
To be touched

I allowed
You all
To touch me
That day
In the woods

I watched a leaf
And I saw
Its fearlessness

For what leaf
Is concerned
With its appearance

What leaf
Is concerned
With its past

What leaf
Is concerned
With its future

What leaf
Is concerned
With what the other leaves
Are doing
Or have done
Or will do
With where the other leaves
Are going
Or have gone
Or will go

I watched a leaf
And I sensed
Its euphoria
Wind drunk
But graceful still

Its return to Earth
Nearly defying gravity
With its skips and hops

Returning gently
to Mother
Waiting silently
Equally unafraid
Of an undisturbed rest
The weight of rain
And snow
Or an earthbound journey
Down a river
On a shoe

I watched a leaf
And I opened my heart
To it
And I opened
My heart
To you

(II) The tree

The tree that called to me
Was pale

I went to her
She showed me tenderness
Her smooth trunk
Anxious to be touched.

Her gift to me
Was emptiness
Her advice to me
Was, "Grow!"
My question to her...
Her response...
"Let go.

Be a leaf."

I can't imagine her
More beautiful
Though lush with greenery
And then the brilliant hues of Autumn
She must be quite stunning

It's her wisdom though
That's most attractive
And her willingness to share

I could try
To become a leaf
But perhaps
I am more suited
To be a tree

Tuesday, October 6, 2015


Had to post, Ab's first 7th grade poetry assignment...


At first; there was a tunnel and a boy. As the boy grew older, doors appeared and he pondered the little doors. Simply fumbling, giving up, and moving on. The doors grew once more as he was not anymore alone. As he watched others open the doors he endlessly questioned himself,
“Will I ever find it, the door... that calls my name?”.
But still he held on and unlike most things, he didn't give up. He grew older still and found more doors, but heavier, the paths had more depth, and still he failed. He failed to find the door that called his name.
A year passed as even more people opened their doors and he noticed.
He was fading.
He could not see.
Finally as the last light faded from him. He found it. A golden door with his name in bright glowing amber. As his hand reached to open these doors, the light slowly came back to him. To his surprise he found a tree. A huge tree with millions of nests, birds, fruit, branches-
And people.
Finally he began to see.

Thursday, October 1, 2015

Odes to Mee

So, I post poems all the time.  The thing is, they are all poems I've written.  Okay, that's a lie, some have been poems written by my children.  But this is different.  In my move I came across some old poems which I apparently saved from my dancing days.  Since it is unlikely they will make it through another move...I will memorialize them here...

a red dress hangs there,
as if you were there,
to fulfill it.
and yet it hangs
and you ignore it.
when you don it,
cinderella fit the finest knit.



The sweetest
smiling eyes;
and supple
as a monkey,
she climbs
to the top,
full of grace,
a circus performer
high above the crowd;
she is free
to be.

We earthbound mortals
in silent admiration
of youth uncouth
and beauty 
and grace.
Pity those
who cannot see
the sanctity
of nudity
and shrink from
life's best,

Uncouth youth
holds us
as we stare
at all there is
or ever could be;
such beauty,
such grace,
such a sweet face;
a mere dollar
seems like an insult,
but like a 
offered on the altar,
it is graciously 
with a knowing