Poem: What Makes a House a Home?

What makes a house a home?

The newspaper strewn
on the family room couch,
a coffee cup perched
on the floor,
a clock softly ticking
the minutes away

of our precious time spent
here on earth.

A cat on the hearth
purrs soft, warm and low,
a bird at the feeder
sings sweetly each morn,
a mother hums tunes
to her infant at night,
a father so proud -
his heart feels so light.

There are pictures in frames,
piles of books,
coasters and notepads,
shoe racks and nooks,
there are mittens and coats,
boots and blue jeans,
laundry in stacks,
near the washing machine.

But all of these things
matter not much
as you ponder the meaning of home,
 it’s what you feel first
when you walk through the door
that makes a house truly a home.

The house might be empty of all worldly goods
leaving only the people inside,
yet they’ll fill up your heart
with love and good cheer
and welcome you in for a time.

Poem: The Beautiful Flower of Life

The Beautiful Flower of Life

What I hold inside

is the beautiful flower

of life;

the blossoms unfold

and allow me to

reach for the sun

from whence my sustenance comes.

I drink from the cup of nectar

that fills my heart and soul

with the love of all time and space.

Poem: Don't Hesitate

Don’t Hesitate

We are all part of the cosmos
where energy and love move effortlessly.
We just have to reach out and grab a bit,
stuff it in our pocket and save it for
one of those rainy days
when we have spent our energy elsewhere
and need to replenish
our reserve.
Ask the universe for assistance and you will receive
abundant grace, embracing help,
and the gift of an all-encompassing love.
Don’t hesitate.  Just ask.

Poem: Hummingbird Limerick

I spied the first hummingbird of the season at my feeder this morning.  

I wrote a limerick in honor of the occasion.

 Hummingbird Limerick

There once was a bird full of grace,

who set an unequaled pace,

he never went slow,

but go, go, go, go,
a smile he brought to my face.

Poem: I'll Fly Away Some Other Time

I have a birdhouse that has a hinge on its roof, so I can occasionally sneak a peak to see if there are any inhabitants.  I tap first to make sure I don't meet an angry mommy bird.  A couple of weeks ago, I was rewarded with a nest full of baby chickadees.  They were so tiny, but had the clear black and white markings of their breed.  I checked again a couple of days later and they had already flown the coop.  I remarked to my husband that birds have to learn to fly very quickly - no prolonged hanging around the nest allowed.  Today, I noticed that a small wren was staking out the same birdhouse and was very meticulously removing the debris from the previous nest in preparation for a new batch of baby birds.  And so goes the cycle of life.  We humans have it pretty good.  We are born and get to spend years in a nurturing environment learning the ins and outs of how to survive in this crazy world. 

I'll Fly Away Some Other Time

My nest is lined with
linen and lace,
and fine
eider down
for sleeping.

I wake to the sound
of a bird chirping near,
in a tree that
hangs low to the ground.

She looks at me; I look at her,
we survey the fine nests we have made,
she cocks her head
with a curious tilt,
a question hangs light in the air.

She might want a bit of my linen and lace
to line her fine nest in the tree,
or maybe some eider to cradle the eggs
in a comforting, loving embrace.

I pull down the shade 

close my eyes tight -
the covers pulled up to my chin;
I’ll keep my fine nest
for as long as I can -
I'll fly away some other time.

Poem: One Wee Child

One Wee Child

 

The day a child is born,

the world aligns most perfectly;

clouds form whimsical shapes,

flowers lean toward the sun,

traffic flows in harmony,

music emanates from
your mind,
your heart,
or maybe
it’s you singing
the praises of one wee child
born on a
Monday full of grace
into a world where all things
are possible.

Poem: Take My Hand

 Take My Hand

We might extend our hands to pull someone to safety,
or aggressively shove them into harm’s way.

The very hands that offer a warm embrace,
might push away in times of anger or fear.

When you shake a hand, you greet someone as a friend.
When you make a fist, you defiantly oppose them.

The same hands that offer a deep massage,
and gently wash a child’s back.
can create a sculpture of exquisite beauty,
a painting with depths of mystery,
or write words that burn with hate.

They can pick a bouquet, plant a seed,
row a boat, or climb a tree;
they can save a life, take a life,
or leave behind a life well-lived.

Our hands are an extension
of our soul;
they act out our thoughts
and move at our command.

Take my hand

Let’s walk awhile and talk of the hands we’ve been dealt.

Poem: We Beat As One

We Beat As One

 Our heart feels it all,
Our pain,
Our joy,
Our love.

It’s always on duty
Absorbing that pain,
Supporting that joy,
Embracing that love.

It is our core;

A fine-tuned organ,
That plays with a metronome beat.

It asks little -
Sometimes we ask a lot.

Each night I thank my heart
For carrying me
Through the day.

We beat as one.

Poem: Happy Mother's Day 2010

 For all the wonderful, giving mothers out there.  

Happy Mother's Day!  

Mother’s Day 2010

From the moment a child is born,
There’s a path that he must take,
It’s fraught with dangerous, tricky turns;
Tough choices to ponder and make.

That very same path is paved with pure joy,
It delights him and shows him the way
The people he meets and places he goes,
Help him learn as he moves through each day.

The constant throughout all of life’s ups and downs
Is his mother so loving and dear,
She’s always right there to shore up his heart
If troubling tempests draw near.

Now that he’s grown the story goes on,
He’s making a path of his own,
His mother will always be near to his heart,
No matter how far he may roam.

Loving Ourselves

 Loving Ourselves

A wise woman once told me to write down everything I like about myself.  She said I should keep it handy for times of self-doubt or low self-esteem.  I initially thought it sounded like a very narcissistic exercise.  Having been raised Catholic, I was taught to not focus on self, but on service to others.  Highlighting my assets didn’t fit well with this humble, servile attitude promoted in my youth.   But then I took the challenge, picked up my pen and began writing.  It was everything she promised.  I found my list growing by the minute and my spirits lifting as I contemplated this list of traits penned so neatly in front of me. 

So, I’m putting forth this challenge to everyone who reads this.  What do you like about yourself?  Write it down and then keep it in a drawer, your purse, your pocket or your wallet.  Pull it out on those bad days when it feels like the world is conspiring against you. 

Here are just a few of the things I like about myself:

I am
compassionate,
a good listener,
a good friend,
a decent giver of advice,
have a sensitive spirit,
and a forgiving nature,
am open to diverse viewpoints,
and I’m funny (sometimes),
mostly when I’m not trying to be,
and I’m a good writer.

Gee that felt good.  Why don’t you give it a try?

Poem: Making a Decision

Making a Decision

What causes us to act?
Do we wake up one day
and say
this is the day,
or is there a slow
evolution
with thoughts rolling around
in our mind
saying
do this, do that,
make this decision,
make that decision,
no it’s too risky,
better not take a chance,
you might look foolish,
you might regret it,
how would it look
to others?

But one day we opt to act -
we put aside that pesky voice -
all the what ifs and can’ts and don’ts
just fall away into a misty haze
of yesterday’s indecision.

Poem: Did You Hear the Great News?

I was listening to Radio Lab on NPR today and they were interviewing Gordon Hempton who founded an organization called One Square Inch .  Their purpose is to protect our natural soundscapes particularly in our national parks.  Mr. Hempton and others are intent on finding the few remaining places where man-made noise is not present.  Most of our national parks allow airplane and helicopter tours, cars and even snowmobiles, which disrupt the natural setting.  There is a spot in Olympic National Park that One Square Inch has designated as the quietest place in the United States.

I began thinking about how rare it is to find silence.  Even as I sit in my backyard at night, I can hear the distant hum of cars.  Our ears are keen instruments that pick up the smallest of sounds and our brains must then process that incoming information.  Stress ultimately follows.  I have written a poem inspired by the program I heard today.

Did You Hear the Great News?

What’s that awful racket?
rat-a-tat rat-a-tat
Did you hear what I said?
whir, tick, whir, tick,
I hate to repeat.
buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz,
Can you call me right back?
ring, ring, ding-a-ling,
Did you hear the great news?
Screech, scratch, screech, scratch,
They’re gonna build a park.
Ding-dong, ding-dong,
Gotta get the front door.
Dial, ring, dial, ring,
A new park?  Sounds great.
Yawn, cough, yawn, cough,
Back to nature, can’t wait.
I could use some peace and quiet.
Achoo, bless you!