After writing poetry for decades, publishing single pieces here and there occasionally, I finally put together a collection and published it as an ebook.
Past Life is available on Smashwords.

After writing poetry for decades, publishing single pieces here and there occasionally, I finally put together a collection and published it as an ebook.
Past Life is available on Smashwords.
Strolling about the neighborhood today, I ran across the above sign in someone’s yard, a quote from one of my favorite authors, Ursula K. Le Guin:
“Love doesn’t just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.”
This is from her novel, The Lathe of Heaven. I know I read it many years ago, but I forget a lot a the details. What I remember is that the main character is a man whose sleeping dreams change reality. But nobody else seems to notice.
This quote, though. It’s so true about the nature of love. It requires intention. There are other sayings along the same line that I’ve found to be true as I go through life. Here’s one: love is a verb. Don’t recall where I read that, but yes. It’s not a vague warm glow, it’s got to be active to have any positive effect.
Here’s another: Love is a choice. You choose how to treat someone. There might or might not be a pleasant emotional feeling while doing so. But the more you make that choice, the more likely you are to develop a pleasant feeling about it. At least, that’s my experience.
Actively choosing to find ways to reach out to our neighbors while we’re all separated is love manifested.
All shall be pandemic, and all shall be pandemic and all manner of things shall be pandemic.
A friend recently asked on Facebook, “What did we even think about before COVID-19?” What indeed? I’m trying to remember. Baseball, I guess.
I’m doing an okay job most days keeping my equilibrium, but it’s impossible not to ruminate on coronavirus when it’s influencing every facet of life. All shall be pandemic, and all shall be pandemic and all manner of things shall be pandemic. That’s how it feels at times. Anything and everything I encounter is now viewed in the context of one particular disease, even when I get a long walk on a very nice morning.
But it’s not all complete despair. This is part of a mural along the MKT Trail.
“All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” — Julian of Norwich.
We’ve been trying to keep a sense of humor in our house. Looks like some folks in our neighborhood are, too. Spotted these on some trees:
I read a poetry prompt somewhere that suggested looking at a poem you like by someone else and using the first word from each line as the last word in a poem of your own on a different topic.
I chose “My Mama Moved Among the Days” by Lucille Clifton.
Here’s my poem:
Within Fire
Within fire I discovered my
own ash. My fear reduced me to
a sapless stump that seemed
resigned to its destruction, seemed
sprouted with the knowledge of the pain it
was destined for. Until a burn. Then
I healed right
up. Scarred but upright.
Since nearby nature trails all seem to be crowded enough to make physical distancing a challenge, I’ve been sticking to city streets and sidewalks. Today’s walk had an education theme, as I decided to traverse a portion of Columbia, Missouri’s African American History Trail. I did not make it to all 37 sites, but I found a few of them. Maybe I can make it a project to visit all of them before my workplace opens again.
Historic, and recently restored Blind Boone Home.
The rest of my photos from the walk are just informational markers. But it’s interesting information.