It is not broken.
I am not broken.
I am purple, and green, and red.
I am black and blue.
I am still here,
in certain lights more present than others.
A walking bruise.
When you touch me,
I am warm.
My blood is flowing–
even though my center is off.
The hurt is there still;
only. if. you. press.
I can conceal it, this ache of mine
—my bruised being
Adorn it with ornaments and ointments.
Remembering that nothing is opaque
let me heal.
I believe that we are trapped in each day,
that a small fragment of our souls, relive it
like groundhog day, but not fully
only snippets will come to the foreground when we need them
like a foreshadowing of our own stories
our own ghosts of yesteryear peak from behind the curtain of the past
to remind us we learned this lesson once
we are transported backwards because we have already been there
because the past continues to play out to some degree
in some cycle, somewhere
and if so, then we all live with ghosts of our stories
The gray color outside of my window,
accompanied by the quiet spatters of raindrops,
lets the day stretch into quiet nourishment of ideas.
A pile of blankets spread out as a cat purrs,
with soft piano notes twinkling the air in the background,
as the ground and clouds meet outside.
Water washes away…
to help pave way to make
constantly encouraging rebirth…
Rainy days are my own personal excuse
to stay inside & contemplate,
transform water & grounds to a cup of coffee,
warming my ideas,
coloring my world with thoughts, words & fluidity.
potential, growth & contemplation
to help carve a way to action, love & betterment,
continually encouraging a wave of creation.
A storm happens every so often, outside my window
letting my thoughts match the weather
I have learned that a storm within myself is a sign
of the changes I wish to make.
In order to let my thoughts become my actions,
I must water them with splatters of acknowledgment–
letting them take root, in my new life.
Written on 9/18, after a road-trip from St Albans, Vermont back to the Capitol Region of New York.
Musings in the Maples
by mk hubbard
I love that the whole state seems to bleed syrup
instead of blood
— roots dive deep into the Earth, & maples are very strong.
The people there view the golden liquid as the nectar of life,
replacing other golds, like honey & precious metal.
The trees are lined with taps, connecting forests together,
a web of dependence on the sugary substance that oozes from their cores.
The farmlands are large, and double yellow lined roads with their higher speed limits, still wind & curve forcing you to slow down,
to make you look around.
Like the maple liquid itself, the drips of sweetness come at their own time, as you travel further & further North…
The mountain top with its trees changing in drips to fall foliage as the sun sets over them, reminds you of the snow to come–
And the ghost of chairlifts swing in the summer heat, waiting to be filled with people, excited for another sugary substance, although this time a powder.
As the Moon rises over the trees, it illuminates the change in a sadder way than the sun does– reminding you that seasons changing have nothing to do with the whims of what we as humans want, but what the Earth demands.
You start a lesson with a scale
with your brain remembering how the note sounds,
drawing a buzz as it recite the fingerings.
Up and down, then back up, maybe a step down to go two steps up again
the pattern sure in its cycle.
Music reminds us that things have beats & measures
not unlike poetry. not unlike science. not unlike communication.
The number four is important in music, and prevalent in nature and division.
Today though, I was reminded of a minor scale;
A note below the natural, yet still a part of the greater piece, evoking the sounds of longing & melancholy.
It reminded me of seasons, of the number four and how things are always connected.
You start a lesson with a scale, because the sureness of what is supposed to come next…
calms the chaos around you.