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Sometimes I feel like a nut.

Sometimes I don’t.

Every mom has an art gallery or a collection box. The walls of the gallery could be a refrigerator or steel cupboard, or a pin-up cork board. Then again, the collection box could be a humble plastic bag  or a small box, both of which have pride of place in her wardrobe or cupboard.

Every mom carefully preserves her own gallery and collection box. Why? Because they contain works of art and gifts from her children –  cards for her birthday, mom’s day cards, doodles and squiggles, thank you notes or stick figure drawings.  The collection boxes probably contain sea shells, pebbles from the road,  hand-made earrings, a paper rocket, a sweet poem, an old photo and many, many such wonderful things.

These are rare treasures indeed that bring back snapshots of the children’s growing up years, and the crazy passage of time.

Where did that child go, who drew…

Kindness in words creates confidence
Kindness in thinking creates profoundness
Kindness in giving creates love. ~Lao Tzu

Who’s Confused? ~d nelson

Sitting quietly with a perfect
view of hilltop
I was looking for a sign
of confusion.
But no matter how hard
I looked there
was no sign
of Hill being confused.

sunset clouded hill

Stable as a mountain
firm as the earth
Hill confidently
conveyed that
it’s not the one
confused.

bridge across the Eel

In hundreds of millions of years
I’ve witnesses many beings come & go.
While most  primates scurry
around digging things up,
hoarding to themselves,
disheveling the earth,
it’s refreshing to experience
expressions of a burgeoning wisdom
which conveys the oneness of all,
softly said ancient Hill.

biggest trees of the forest

See how tree’s do nothing
but give; beauty, oxygen,
shelter, food, and more.
Rivers & streams seem to rush
but look deeper and see
how they…

“Mate” by Anne Worner CC BY-SA 2.0

In the inconstant ravages of midday

I drink of your succulent greys,

of your endless repetitions.

Winning accounts for only a fraction

of our experiences, we lose everyday.

I stand here challenging my failures,

the pawn of my genius watered down.

I will not be made palatable.

I will not be made to adhere.

The only geometry worth the commute

is the human heart. Those slovenly angles

really get me going, even now

in this wrangling heat, the muse seizes hold

shaking me free of my rumpled dress.

–

We were young once, too young

to appreciate the distress of bones

huddled beneath orgasmic flesh.

Too young to know the intimacy

imposed by silence. I love you

in ways both innocuous and forbidden.

I’d kill for you, an oath not undertaken lightly.

We only seem casual, ordinary

but on the inside we are…