Coffee Puzzle

November 4, 2019.  Recently, walking into my kitchen, my memory took a leap back to the kitchen I grew up in – the center of family activities.  The table was cleared for each meal and then immediately cleared for the next activity – homework, paying bills, making a new slipcover for the old rocker.  In early hours (before anyone else was supposed to be awake), Mother sat at the table drinking coffee and reading magazines.  The memory that won’t let go was a rare day when Mother sat down for coffee mid-day.  I was elementary-school age.

(I’m still puzzling why this memory pops up now.  I lean toward synchronicity, not coincidence.)

The table (now in my sister’s home) was available to photo for this collage with a map of the Monahans area in West Texas as backdrop.  (No recall of Mother’s coffee cups, though I do remember a metal coffeepot heated on stove top – just-poured coffee was surely boiling hot.)

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Haverhill Solo Hours

September 26, 2019.  Periodically, I get lonesome for times, places past.  One such evening, I dug out this poem about just such evenings … and went to work on a collage to capture the primary elements of mini-trampoline, best-ever rocker, parquet floor.  I added a dream catcher to symbolize the only way I can go back.  Haverhill is an extension of West Palm Beach, Florida – where my first husband and I built the house (1970-1973) – where my kids came to be (1974 and 1977) – where the kids and I continued to live after Dad departed in 1979, up until I brought the kids to my origins in Texas (1986).  If I could’ve figured a way to bring that house along to Texas, I would be rocking in it still!

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Flaming Peace

April 14, 2019.  Recently I had the opportunity to sit in silence by a campfire, letting the dancing flames erase just about every thought … then present a face smiling at me from a burning log.  Not a laughing grin … a serene smile.  Apart from the added circle, this image is what my phone captured.  The next morning I stared again at the face, recalling how it had indeed smiled all the way to sudden collapse.  The haiku here is the result of multiple revisits to figure out just what message to take from that smile.

Maybe you will see a different message.

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Self Defense

April 7, 2019.  No, nothing to do with martial arts!

One week into Poetry Month, and under the influence of an evocative SoulCollage® group session yesterday, I take my stand – as poet, yes, but not just poet – as creative human  giving creativity space, attention, support to flourish.

A word about SoulCollage® – a Jungian therapy process developed by Seena Frost – I’ve been practicing this since 2007.   It’s something you DO as opposed to read about, but if curious, go here: https://www.soulcollage.com/

This image is a collage for four SoulCollage cards created yesterday.  Image details were clipped from calendar/magazine pages and pieced together intuitively.  Each of the four cards (5×8″) can be “read” – imagery speaking to whatever inside me chose and arranged the pieces.  Collectively, they delivered this poem.

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Spring Clean

March 28, 2019.  Spring has announced herself with an abundance of green coming up through dried leftovers of prior green frozen to the ground.  Lots to clean up in the yard!  I tackled the crinum bed alongside driveway a bit at a time to avoid arthritic reaction to the necessary bending, stooping at unusual angles.  This poem emerged from the meditative nature of putting face repeatedly near earth … plus it was Mother’s birthday.  The following day, my email brought me the poem Earth Song – including:

Those who are dead are never gone;
The dead are not down in the earth:
They are in the trembling of the trees

Indeed, Mother was right there with me in the crinums’ upward thrust.

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Crinums produce large lily-like blooms – mine are a vivid pink, prolific come June.

I’m unable to find a direct link to Earth Song, Traditional from Senegal.  I received it via Panhala – to subscribe, send a blank email to:

Panhala-subscribe@yahoogroups.com

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Feeling The Wait

January 13, 2019.  Reflecting on my recent routine visit to the Ear-Nose-Throat doc – a remarkably pleasant space for waiting your turn – light coming through windows along the outer wall of the receptionist area – then passing through a cheerfully frosted panel into the make-yourself-comfortable area.  Usually, one or two others share the wait.  But this last visit got crowded.

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