Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey; along came a spider, who sat down beside her, and frightened Miss Muffet away.
The very next day she came out to play, determined to overcome fear; the spider returned, and Miss Muffet learned, to say hello with cheer.
Now that she’s older, Miss Muffet is bolder, and nothing affects her outlook; she stays outside, takes everything in stride, and continues reading her book.
No matter where I go, there I am, at the center of my universe, with every vector of possibility extending outward to infinity and beyond. When I can settle and still the turmoil of my soul, I can see the heavens in my own being. I know the sun does not truly rise in the sky, nor is the horizon the edge of the world, yet I live as though I believe the earth is flat and this is all there is to my being. It is a lie that the past creates the present and the present creates the future, when memories of the future can inform the present and change my very perception of the past I thought I knew. I can live tomorrow’s dream today if only I choose to look beyond the veil and accept that I am a wizard, rather than a human bound by fate. I am the relationship between nowhere and now here because I have localized eternity to this point in time and choose to focus on this present.
@Home Studio – 143rd poem of the year
Chopra, Deepak. The Way of the Wizard: Twenty Spiritual Lessons for Creating the Life You Want. New York, United States of America, Harmony Books, 1995, pp.109-115.
Runner ups for the Eternity photos to accompany my poem:
You are not the kind of book with a slick jacket I can collect on my shelf; nor can I mark my place with sticky notes, gum wrappers, or old receipts.
You are an audio book with raucous laughter, one-liner quips of witty dialogue, random philosophical musings about religion, and societies latest great failings.
Sometimes I need to slow the playback speed and crank up the volume to discern the subtle nuances of your narration and tune my ear to your frequency.
Other times I realize you’re on full blast in the middle of a raunchy scene in public rather than coming through my headphones like a gentleman.
My granddaughter left a gift of lavender bath salts for me on my desk with a sweet little message written in half cursive half print on a sticky note. She left one for her DāDā, and probably everyone else in the house as well, because she loves to leave treats for others when she finds a way. I am glad my prickly, lovely, argumentative, emotional, explosive, beautiful, forgetful girl has a heart full of love.
“Vengeance is mine,” sayeth Ceasar, until his apemanity kicks in and he is able to be better than human and allow mercy to unfold naturally. Who gets to determine the value of a life on this rock hurtling through space we call home? Does intellect trump simple existence or one form of communication imply worth over another? Is birdsong less a language than human speech or an elephant’s rumble less valid than words? Someone I know once said their life would not be affected by animals going extinct and it made me sad because I believe the tiny pieces of our humanity that perish with each species we forget to save hasten our own souls’ decay.
@Home Studio (after watching War for the Planet of the Apes at Greg’s house with Greg and his family, Debbie, and Celinda on 5/18/24) – 130th poem of the year
Matt Reeves et al., War for the Planet of the Apes. Los Angeles, CA, 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2017.
Runner ups for the War of Apes photos to accompany my poem:
One, two, three…maybe four prescriptions need to be filled because I grow old and less able to take pride in health and vigor like I used to, as though I somehow earned the youthful ease with which my joints bent, and my muscles contracted instantly, and every sinew responded to my whim with instant graceful movement; those people who complained of aches and stiffness were somehow at fault for their functional inadequacies and I did not recognize my future reflection in their eyes because that woman’s lined face was contorted with pain.
Photograph I took from inside Buddha Hall at The Writing Barn on 5/5/24.
The oak trees stand guard, keeping bothersome reality at bay, ensuring sanctuary for these tireless artists of word and story, providing respite from judgment long enough for imagination to begin the process of creative unfolding, for that is the only way the art is born fresh and raw, unfiltered. Yes, the work of shaping, peeling, whittling away the excess will be done to perfect and sculpt the mass into something more palatable, but the first bloody moments of pain and relief, joy and confusion, brilliant bursts of kaleidoscopic invention spilled out into the universe deserve to be protected. The oak trees understand their assignment and take their oaths very seriously, and for their loyalty, I am grateful.
@The Writing Barn: Buddha Hall – 126th poem of the year
Photograph I took in Buddha Hall at The Writing Barn on 5/5/24.
I bought the Sceptre Curved 24-inch gaming monitor1080p R1500 98% sRGB HDMI x2 VGA Buid-in speakers, VESA Wall Mount Machine Black (C248W-19204N Series) – the sound is not very good, but I like the visuals for the work I do, and it was $84.97 on Amazon. I bought the Hiearcool USB C Hub, USB C Multi-Port Adapter, 7in1 Dongle Compatible for MacBook Pro, Chromebooks, etc. for $18.84 on Amazon. It seems to be working fine. I also bought the Logitech MK295 Wireless Mouse & Keyboard Combo with SilentTouch Technology, full number pad, lag-free wireless, 90% less noise for $29.99 on Amazon. I like them well enough and must have a number pad on my keyboards, so I like this one. I also got a LORYERGO Laptop Stand for Desk to make more room and have a better angle on the Chromebook for $12.74 on Amazon. This one is wonderful. I think it is helping with neck pain, too. Lastly, I got a SUPERDANNY power strip surge protector with 22 AC outlets and 6 USB charging ports for $27.99 on Amazon. It is a bit of overkill, but I was sick of not having enough outlets for things. Oh, and for back comfort, I use my cat as a lumbar pillow. He is not for sale.
@Home Studio – 122nd poem of the year
Runner ups for the Tech and Cat photos to accompany my poem:
Our most fragile young sleep in giant moonflowers and sip the nectar if they are hungry between feedings. When they outgrow the petal-perfect beds nature constructed just for them, they learn to sleep on the knit hammocks strung delicately between the lowest branches of the swaying willow palm trees. The cloth is woven from flower stem silk and the bedding is fresh layered petals changed nightly. Our skin becomes the fragrance of the flowers, for we are inextricably intertwined with the vines and the leaves and the fronds and the buds. Then, when we grow too old to see the stars with our own eyes, too old to hear the song of the silver sycamore boughs, too old to feel the velvet of the lambs’ ear bush, too old to taste the nectar of the purple dragonmint, we enter the heart of the forest to create a nest of shaggy moss and jelly lichen cushioned with sweetgrass and honey death fungus, and cover ourselves with layers of galaxy orchids and phoenix lilies so we can join our brother flowers in eternal sleep.
@Home Studio – 120th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Alien Flowers photos to accompany my poem:
rebekahjmarshall 