A shrinking feeling overwhelms me;
the giant issues that surround
suffocate and diminish my spirit slowly.
Will we survive?
Will this craziness pass?
Will we ever find the door
that leads to the garden of love
Let us be strong again;
Let us believe again;
We must survive
the autocratic greed,
the narcissistic need to lead
blindly, arrogantly, foolishly,
We must believe that we are truly one.
Someone knows who I am!
And would you have guessed
She’s a poet.
She described me
and used metaphors
to describe my soul as I show it.
She counted all the tears I’ve shed;
listed my fears with alliteration.
One can only help but feel
some sort of fascination.
Someone knows who I am;
Someone knows I am,
who I am;
Me, myself and I
now do see
I want to be.
Every spring I try to plant a beautiful garden like the ones I have seen in magazines. No sooner I plant Begonias, Calandula, Petunias and Pansies, our resident cottontail rabbit and occasional visiting deer snap up the fresh or new blooms.
The rabbit loves the clover that grows wild and free in our backyard. Clover is a weed but I cannot bring myself to stripping it because it has very dainty white flowers and because I too love the green leaves.
Therefore, my garden is composed of large ceramic pots. I have resigned to the fact that I may never have a garden except for the improvised one on our deck.
So what does Stanley Kunitz have to do with my want to be garden? Nothing really. Except that Mark Doty once described how Mr. Kunitz would walk through his garden “paying strict attention to every inch of it.”
I too thought about Mr. Kunitz’s visits to his garden. My grandmother never left her house for years except to step out into her small garden. Hers was a real garden. She talked to the flowers and plants; she claimed they would grow more and bloom more robustly.
Thus, I wrote a poem about her love of nature and especially her garden.
Grandma only felt safe in her garden
the lavender plant soothed her soul
and helped her cope with her phobia.
On a few occasions, I heard her sing
to the tiger lilies. They leaned and seemed to listen.
She stood very still as if she were watching out
for prey like the cottontail did on the grassy lawn
there were no prey to speak of
no one would ever harm her
but she listened carefully to nature’s sounds and warnings
every morning among the daffodils
She is gone now
and so is Stanley K.
I wonder if they stand together
in heaven’s divine garden
praying for us here on earth.
The Fine Arts Work Center. When my wife and I first started dating, the poet Stanley Kunitz, one of the founders of the Fine Arts Work Center, visited her in a dream. She told him about our budding romance, and he said, with all the brightness and benevolence one would expect, “That’s wonderful! Wonderful!”…
Like Emily I too
yet I know
I am loved
*With apologies to Emily Dickinson
Lately, all I wish for is peace and quiet. I have been watching too many shows that focus on politics and the state of the union if you will. I am just exhausted. I needed to get back into a zen place and focus on writing again and painting.
The painting above is imagined but suits me fine for the time being. I also started sketching and drawing portraits from old photographs. It has been therapeutic.
There is nothing more calming than painting and writing. I recommend it highly. I would like to hear about other remedies for reducing stress. Please send me your thoughts.
One less card this year
not late or belated
It seems that greeting for special holidays, birthdays, even Mother’s Day posted on social media should suffice these days. No phone calls either sometimes. A quick text with a cute emoji or some ridiculous Gif will substitute a sentiment.
Oh well, I suppose it is what it is. Luckily I have kept all the very special greeting cards, some hand made, in a box. It will probably end up being a time capsule someday. Just saying! Hallmark must be going broke. What do you think?
As I devoted the week to reading more Haiku by the great poets, I started writing my own poems again. I hope to publish another collection of poems by the end of the year. So stay tuned. For those of you who have supported me by purchasing Haiku Moments and The Secret Life of Mandalas, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Mosquito at my ear
does it think
Issa was a beloved poet. Compared to Robert Burns, he writes poems crickets, flies and other creatures. He was born in 1763 in a small mountain village in central Japan.
Climb Mount Fuji,
but slowly, slowly.
What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms.
Deal with fear right now
the mantra may be one word
Just choose Happiness
-Melba Christie (c) 2013
“Do not seek to follow
in the footsteps of the wise.
Seek what they sought.”