It's been awhile

Posting again after a long break. Sorry for my laziness.

P.E.I.

a grain of sand (flecks off the Teapot)
upon Thunder Cove beach, many red-rock Inushuks
saluting the Gulf of St Lawrence, fields of iron-rich soil
full of potatoes for shipment off island
Canada’s smallest province welcomes 
more than one million tourists (mostly to 
eat lobster and visit Anne of Green Gables’ farmhouse)


© October 2019

When We Meet

unlike winter stars crisp clear cold connecting you and me
we are not joined though occupying the same space and time
no matter who we are and where we end up. I cannot hear
your thoughts, am blind to your actions as we lose
precious time arguing for no good reason. what have you
gained? Only sorrow.


© October 2019

Abashed Collecting

One ticket from a cruise along the Seine
Two decorated wooden shoes, filled with soil, used for tulips
Three coasters showing scenes of London in 1872
Four used tickets for the ferry from Jersey to Guernsey and back
Five postcards of Constable’s landscapes from the National Gallery
Six matchbooks from Munich restaurants (never used)
Seven menu cards for dinner aboard a river cruise up the Rhine
Eight decorative European teaspoons inherited from my mother
Nine pebbles taken (don’t tell anyone) from the shores of the Gulf of St. Lawrence
Ten graphic T-shirts so worn out I can’t tell where they’re from anymore

© October 2019

Sorry I've Been Busy

N. A. Chaos

The intersection of Yonge and Bloor at 5pm on a Thursday
in July, 2 hours before the Blue Jays play New York Yankees.
Pedestrians scramble north-east to south-west on red lights
every which way. All cars are stopped. A bead of sweat,
two honking horns, three skyline billboards,
four sidewalk preachers, five Starbucks franchises,
six, seven, eight, nine, … 2.8 million mouths to feed



© July 2019

Another Month, Another Location

Prairie Winsome 

Drive across Saskatchewan where the horizon
never changes, never rises, never falls. Fields of canola
as far as the eyes can see, uninterrupted by time,
parched for rain. A collection of tombstones cast
shadows, remind me of ancestors who travelled far
from the potato fields of Ireland. Soil baked, cracked dry
by the constant sun. One maple sits alone, its neighbour
down the dusty road 50 kilometers away.

© July 2019

The line aren't that blurred

Hidden Lines

How is it that I see you standing in line at the checkout
but you don’t see me? Am I covered by the invisible cloak called racism
or an underused one called sexism? Are you blind to those
who don’t look like you? Then you’re in a line by yourself.

Open your eyes and see what’s standing beside you, in line
for a coffee, a passport, a car loan. We breathe as you do. And yes
we bleed. We welcome our neighbours to join us for prayers or
watch the league championship on a big screen TV.

Are you afraid of what we appear to be, not from your home town,
coloured from a new box of crayons, created by merging the lines
of humanity that started when we left the trees to cross the vast landscape
in front of us? Or are you just unhappy to be ‘woke’ on this fine day?


© June 2019

Happy Father's Day Dad

The Perfectionist

My father helped me write a poem once; well
maybe I should say that he wrote the poem and
I transcribed it on a piece of foolscap paper.

The assignment was to write about some bears,
every other line had to rhyme; each stanza had to have
four lines; there had to be four stanzas. I was in Grade 4.

My father was a perfectionist, so the poem
had to be just so, just like every poem he had read
when he was young in a British public school.

I don’t remember what the teacher said about my work,
or the mark I got. My only clear memory of it all was
that father didn’t want to let me fail, at anything.

I wonder what he’d think of what I’ve written now.
He’d probably try to fix it.


© June 2019

Still writing, still growing, still open

Mentorship

She said write about what you know
I said I know nothing, that’s why I’m taking this course
That’s why I’m putting myself out there
That’s why I’m attending this mic-nite
That’s why my knees are knocking, and my palms are sweating

She said to start simple and just write, don’t edit
I said but my spelling’s atrocious and rhyming just isn’t my thing
Structure just isn’t my thing
Interaction just isn’t my thing
Spilling my guts and revealing my slip-ups just isn’t my thing

“She is a birch, a hazel”, she quoted this poet I’d never heard of
and waited for me to reply. I shook my head, said “no idea”, to which
she whispered, faint and remote, “a straight slender young rowan”
as she turned, walking away. I stood there in awe, I stood there expecting
a rush of excitement, I stood there at a loss for how to continue

to think I could write poetry. When I tried to leave, completely dejected,
the woman in the ratty pullover and tattered jeans at the back of the room
stopped me. “Don’t go. Don’t give her the idea that she’s broken you.
Don’t give up so fast”. I shook my head with a “Maybe she’s right. Maybe
I’m out of my league”. To which she replied, “She was once just like you.

Unsure and afraid of making mistakes. She persevered. She strived. She worked
her butt off. She made the words blossom, the lines flow, the poems express
the pictures she saw in her head. I should know for I am her mother, and she has
made me so proud. Sit here, next to me. She’ll stop by after she’s ripped
into the rest of them. She’ll talk and you’ll listen and learn. You’ll grow”.


© June 2019

Limericks

Hadn't realized I haven't posted lately. Here's a few.

Hippie Dippy

I tie-dyed a T shirt today
Rinsed out with cold water, okay
Made it blue and green
No white to be seen
The seventies look’s here to stay


© June 2019

D-Day 1944

Over the ocean and years ago,
a battle was fought, rescue was slow.
Many friends (they were lost)
did not know the cost
of the sacrifice made to stop foe.


© June 2019

Kicked Out

The sun is awash with mystery
The moon shows fully its history
Pluto no more
Stays with the core
The residual planets aren’t sisterly


© June 2019

Another attempt at an abcedarian

An Abecedarian for William

A poem that
begs you
carefully to
dream and
earnestly listen,
filling in
grace after
hearing
invisible whispers,
just fitted
keys turning,
lowly voices
murmuring on and on,
not surprising us or
openly forcing us,
pouring ideas and
questionable facts,
resisting lies,
saying out loud
through rising choirs
underneath apathetic alliances
volumes and volumes.
William,
xanthic
yellow plums have entered my consciousness,
zestful and invasive as breath.


© May 2019

Abecedarian

Fight the Apathy of Man

All fairness follows without policy of life
beyond it is unknown to receive the word.
Can you believe the surety of misconception?
Do you stand up for every tree that grows upon this earth?
Every forest has its purpose and its right;
for every cell of every tree, time is allotted.

Go forth and risk the darkest earth’s eternal soul,
hear every creature’s cry for help (some whispers).
Independent though we seem, only together will we
jump past the negativity of this invasion:
knotweed and blackberry, to name a few.
Loss of prairie grasses and tundra corrupt

man’s apathy, to witness those that ‘just do
not care’ increase in number every day.
Only knowledge fills the trough,
passing on the hard-fought wisdom,
quest for reverence, allowance of the
ripeness within each leaf and stem.

Search and boldly search again for
tests to pass, rules to keep to, heroes who
understand that leaders must be truly harsh,
violently so as to force the masses
weary from the battle for our home.
Xena, fight this battle with us!
Yet this is the only home we’ll ever know; earth’s
Zenith is where the prize awaits us all.


© May 2019

Dystopia

This City is One Colour

The gardens, filled with sprays of magnolias, lilies, peonies,
enrich the landscape of our lives allowing us to view
the kaleidoscope of wonders in this time. And yet, within this place,
within this suburban wasteland, we can overlook that which is not represented,
that which we know is part of all we were but is not here right now.

Now, only after pausing to contemplate the obvious, do we recognize that
all faces are the mirror, the bleached whiteness hidden by the sallowness of
spirit, the pallor of the death of long-lost diversity, an emptiness of hues;
somehow, we have allowed a segregation, where we have lost the power,
and now our genes cannot remedy our frayed mistake.



© May 2019

Found Poems

Political Intrigue

                                From The Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula K. LeGuin, pg 88

time                 came three against

                fire spewed

                                                                swift,

                                breath

                                                                                came from north

                                                                                                                one

                                flew up 

                                                                                talons out,

                with fire,

                                                                swooped,                       till

                                                red-lit                    glare

                                                                                                the dragon.

                                                                                                The black

                                                                                                tore free

crawling into                                                   the ruined town.

                                                                                                hands

black

scorched

                                                nor voice spoke

                                                only the waves

on the shore.

                                                                dragon-magic.

© May 2019

Some thoughts on Emily Dickinson

Unrepentant 

Not for Emily

As a form, it is not fluid
Square peg in a round hole,
I cannot condone her scriptures,
to grasp what does not glow.
There is no place for me in this
unforgiving closet.
I am not a rock, a diamond,
but a soft hosanna.


© May 2019

Death Blocks The Way

Death is to travel, not return

Death is a space unwelcome

Death is an unbecoming phase of life

Death is so comatose

It is not death that I do fear

It is not death I worship

It is not death for just death’s sake

It is not death repentant

Knowledge comes full stop at death

Wise words present themselves at death

All pain and cries will cease at death

Creation sings its song at death

© May 2019

School strike for climate action - Friday

The Young Will Inherit Our Problems

rise up and leave the classroom.
go out the door and walk down the road with
hundreds, maybe thousands, of fellow students,
who will march forsaking every plan made in their name,
pointing out mistakes and lies,
covering up the bees and flowers,
opening the poor and weary to the hate
that they do not deserve.

rise up and leave your youth.
grow up much faster than you should.
take the reins that others have left hanging
by the roadside on their way to apathy and hate.
assume the leadership that should not be yours
for many years, for the leaders are weak and useless.
we cannot hold onto the promise we made to you
to protect, to keep you safe and warm,
until the time when you would take the lead.

rise up and leave the comfort of your home.
march down the highway, gather strength along the way
and, with one voice, demand the change that must be made
for you and me and all of us to live upon this earth, for
there is no planet B.


© May 2019

Looking out the window

My view is mostly blocked by this increasingly large conifer.

Old Friend

The spruce in my backyard holds up the world.
It keeps the chickadees that live among its branches
safe from harm; it covers crows and starlings from the rain;
it provides the Stellar jays and hummingbirds a close-by perch
for the water feature when it’s free for bathing.

The spruce in my backyard supports new life.
Freshly broken eggs fall to the ground as spring robins leave
the family’s nest to graze for worms and ants and grubs
within the lawns nearby. A symphony at 5am each day
rewards the early risers, myself among them.

The spruce in my backyard grows tired quickly at its age.
The stages of its life revealed as branches, cones, and needles
on the ground around its base; it dances in a breeze,
runs swiftly in the wind, and shouts at the top of its’ lung when
winter gusts return to cover it for the year-end celebration.

© May 2019

Day 29 and 30 - NaPoWriMo

Retirement

The hairdresser I’ve been using for the past twenty years
(give or take a year) has retired to cruise the world’s ocean
(while they’re still around), so I’m currently in the hunt
for a new one. Not as simple as ‘googling’ hairdressers in my area, and
saying she’s for me. When you have a favourite, she or he is like
a member of your family (like a bartender, someone you can spill
your darkest secrets to, knowing they never tell anyone you know
what you told them). When you lose them, you feel lost and out of sorts and
your hair just misbehaves (as if it knows you’re in-between stylists),
causing you to skip a meeting here or a party there, because you don’t
want to be seen looking as you do. Like you’re badly in need of a haircut.


© April 2019

Entry

To whom it may concern:

enclosed are 5 poems as entries for your contest.

I believe they fit the topic you outlined, in some small way,

they meet format you requested,

and fulfill the tasks as hand. I have been published once before,

about 8 years ago, in a very minor local chapbook-style magazine,

put out by local poets trying to build a press for inspired works,

and maybe win an award or 2. (I do not believe they have, won anything,

that is.) I appeared in consecutive issues, and then never again; 

not without trying by entering contest after contest from Canada, US, and 

even the UK. I hear I’m close, the judges say they like my style, but the polish 

is bright enough, the tone a little off. Maybe I need another course

in writing fundamentals. Maybe I need to just let go and write about

what matters most to me. I have a blog if you’re interested in 

reading that. I hope you’ll read the 5 enclosed and see a spark 

of creativity and want to see some more.

Thank you for your time and may your day be filled with words exceptional.

© April 2019 

Day 26, 27, and 28 - NaPoWriMo

Truth and Reconciliation

This land was not empty when the first explorers arrived,
but the indigenous people were ignored and pushed onto tiny plots of land.
Centuries of mistreatment and misunderstanding followed.
Children were taken from their homes,
their languages taken from their mouths,
their culture taken from themselves.
Recently a committee was set to document the history
and lasting impacts of the ‘residential schools’ in Canada.
The final report of 2015 detailed 94 ‘calls to action’ regarding reconciliation.
As of April 5, only 10 are complete.


© April 2019

bees

Without bees, there would be no almonds.

Fruits like apples, blueberries, and cherries would

also disappear. I do not like this future. I will plant

more black-eyed susans and marigolds. I will give

bees what they need: my respect.

© April 2019 

42

A number of a class made famous by a book. 

Not odd at all or part of a sequence made famous

by the ‘most talented mathematician of the Middle Ages’.

Its presence on a certain spider’s back should have signalled fear

to a certain high school student named Peter. Yes, its related; don’t’ panic.

On making your journey through death, answer all questions asked.

So, is it perfect? No, it is only 

a primary pseudoperfect number.

© April 2019

Day 24 and 25 - NaPoWriMo

Change

Stop by when you’re back in town
and we can get together to talk about old times,
reminisce about the weeks we hiked along
the Pacific Westcoast Trail, avoiding grizzles and coyotes,
cooking food over an open fire and sleeping out under the stars.

We saw the orcas beach and dive,
the bald eagles soar and retreat,
both waiting for stocks of krill and salmon
to fill their bellies and satisfy the young,
so they grow up and take their place among
earth’s favourite creatures.

Stop by when you’re back in town
and we can talk about the future,
how lives are changing,
yours, mine,
the orcas, and the eagles.


© April 2019

Again and Again

Oh yes! It’s come to that. Among the streets and roads so full of cars and buses, I see
the woman standing waiting for a lift. She’d tries to look so brave and self-secure, the woman
waiting patiently, the woman all alone, a ripe fruit poised for picking (up), the woman only trying to
just get by and feed her family. The woman starts to pace between the bus stop and the bagel store,
glancing at her watch again. Impatience simmers to the surface of her skin. I cross the road
ahead of her. I stand on guard. When two men walk in her direction, I call out and start to chat.
The woman gets the message I am passing onto her. We are women and we have each other’s back.
The men pass by. The woman sighs and smiles.


© April 2019

Day 23 - NaPoWriMo

Dimtistic

A loud cry of increasing volume directed at the party’s host,
when the ex-boyfriend arrives with his new wife.
Pieces of an heirloom platter, strewn around the buffet table,
after your nephew tried to reach across you to get the last deviled egg.
The pattern on the hand towels in the main floor bathroom
that were a wedding gift (ten years ago) from her least-favourite aunt.
What you hear when you put your ear to the youngest child’s bedroom door
(the youngest being 20 and still living at home though making good money
working as a dental hygienist in your brother practice in Kitsilano).
How you feel as you fall on the bed at 3am after all of guests have left,
and the house is still a mess, but you honestly just don’t care.


© April 2019

Day 21 and 22 - NaPoWriMo

The Beginning and the End

Out of the darkness,
there was light.
Out of the silence,
there was noise.
Out of the comfort,
there was cold.
Out of the nothingness,
there was too much everything.
If I feared my entry into this existence,
I do not remember.
My exit from this plain, however,
chills me to the bone, and
I will not go so easily.


© April 2019

Earth Day

They appeared in the northern skies at 8:19am EDT.
Seemingly friendly, their craft sat for hours waiting.
Crowds started to gather around the world expecting
a message, a sign, a warning, an explanation.
Suddenly, the ship verged off towards a small island
in the Pacific Ocean, with no inhabitants,
emptied years ago, so someone could conduct tests
(yes those kind, very hush hush).
A beam descended dropping a parcel on a strip of beach
where no human could see its landing.
The crowds slowly dispersed after the visitors left at 8:42pm PDT.
Social media was full of possibilities of who or what had arrived.
After a month the whole episode was forgotten.
Years later, scientists discovered an organism (they called it voom)
in the world’s water supply, but couldn’t explain what it was
or how it got there. However, the earth was healing
and they were extremely happy.


© April 2019

Day 20 NaPoWriMo

Thirty-Four

  After Kate Braid and Emily Carr

Trees rush
time races by
as minutes become days,
days become years.
You and I are not changed much,
possibly older, wiser,
certainly sillier, healthier.
To a paradise of pink
we are together after moving,
after children,
after retirement of one,
not surprised to see each day begin
with thoughts of how the other one is feeling,
when we’ll be in the same city,
where our next adventure will take us into the
deep woods.


© April 2019

Day 19 - NaPoWriMo

Us

A letter, a word, a sentence,
continuous lines of text, running on and
on into the night so silent.
When tomorrow seems only
a possibility, in which the probable outcome will be
that I can see your face again and know
your love for me is still inside. That which is part of me
is part of you and together we shall
enter the future, not looking back, not expecting to win
a million dollars or a Fiat Spider, just karma;
like me finding my ring after losing it last week
in yoga class. Yes, it is the same karma
that put your first job interview
outside my door, and I knew then what took you weeks
to discover; we were meant to be together,
year after year.


© April 2019

Day 18 - NaPoWriMo

All the Houses I Have Lived In

After Lucia Berlin’s ‘The Trouble with All the Houses I’ve Lived In’

wartime stark white bungalow
three quickie moves then a brand-new bungalow next door to a school
brand-new two-story with a gorgeous view, stayed six months
corner lot on a busy street, discovered AM radio
purple shag carpet, discovered boys
dreary townhouse in the middle of nowhere
former monastery lands, strange roof style that kept upstairs very warm in summer
university housing, multi-level, rotating cast of characters
first condo with my first dog, no style, stayed six months
second condo with a better view, discovered love and true friendship
first home as a couple, brand-new brick façade with no grass the first year
a ‘Vancouver’ special (not my style at all, rushed purchase)
two-storey on a large lot on a cul-de-sac, longest I’ve lived anywhere in my life


© April 2019

Day 17 - NaPoWriMo

West Coast Springtime 

Chickadees start to fee-bee just past sunrise
to welcome in the day. Robins and starlings
bathe in a neighbouring pond. Flickers
poke the lawns for grubs and worms.
Crows and Stellar’s jays round out the chorus.

Foliage of greens and reds increase to hide
everyday paths and trails. Light peaks through
patchy rain clouds as I stroll through stony avenues
of west coast wonders. No ferns were planted here;
they just materialize from spores left by
raccoon, grizzly, and coyote, who breed nearby.

© April 2019 

Day 16 - NaPoWriMo

Purple

Passion and depression,
the story of my life since menopause.
One day full of pansy laughter and hope,
the next, a search for a mind-quieting lull
after a night of insomnia (again).
Purple rules my wardrobe
and my life. No thoughts for peaceful cares,
just a lonely five km walk along the dyke
to stem the unhappy string of knotted thoughts.
Dreams, when they come, are obtuse and unrewarding.
Hormones have their purposes, not only for the body,
but also for the mind. Now it’s tentative at best,
an arguing world at worst. Oh, to be five again,
and only see the day as a book, a bath, and a blanket
dragging on the floor.


© April 2019

Day 14 and 15 - NaPoWriMo

Cheese

yesterday
turkey with apple and Brie slices
(warmed up enough to melt slightly)

today
leftover pasta with fresh-grated Parmesan 
(or more correctly, Parmesan with pasta)

tomorrow 
mushroom quiche, full of shredded Mozzarella
(maybe I make this too often)

never ever
Kraft singles (wrapped in plastic) are not cheese!

© April 2019

Mother’s Kitchen

The lights were off. The curtains drawn.
Only the furnace purred away like Sam and Oliver
after a meal of canned salmon. The floors were spotless,
all chairs tucked under the pine table that held
today’s bouquet of daisies. Every day,
a different flower from the garden, cut with care,
trimmed with grace and love, fed with Grandmas’ secret mix
of filtered water and sugar. Another recipe passed on.
All cupboards neat. All drawers arranged as soldiers on parade.
Each tea towel hung just so, sterilized and bright as summer days
can be, with love and kisses planted on each photo on the wall of honour.
So quiet and so spotless, hardly ever used these days, by those
who, left behind mourn mother’s passing on, cannot bring themselves
to open up a drawer or search a pantry shelf for anything,
and not be moved to tears.
For she is gone, and she is irreplaceable.


© April 2019

Day 13 - NaPoWriMo

Normal Isn’t Normal Anymore

It’s cold.
It’s wet.
It’s April in Vancouver.
Cherry blossoms and magnolia petals
line the sidewalks and litter the lawns.
Tulips burst forth daily.
Maple branches begin to hide from view
as foliage renews in the Fraser River valley.
The calm before the summer storms in
with heavy heat and wildfires.
It’s the new normal (unfortunately).

© April 2019 

Day 11 and 12 - NaPoWriMo

Origin Story

Opening scene. A gorgeous autumn day on Ile Montréal.

Scene after scene of houses and schools across Canada,
From east to west,
then back east,
then back west again.
In all of them, the same girl, alone, off to the side.

Closing scene. A solitary Douglas fir, surrounded by boreal forest, waits for the signal
to speak.


© April 2019

Transported

If only I could go back to the day before you died,
so I could ask you why you didn’t tell me
when you got married.

If only I could go back to the day after Dad died,
so I could ask you to explain your statement
about leaving him.

If only I could go back to the day we moved for the umpteenth time,
so I could ask you and Dad what was wrong this time.

If only I could go back to the day you threw out my tarot cards,
so I could tell you to f*** o**

If only I could go back to the day I got my tattoo,
so I could take a photo of it and send to you in the past and
see your reaction.

You tried so hard to force me to fit into your idea of a daughter
that you missed living your life for yourself.

My life is mine to live as I see fit. Mistakes, warts, and all.


© April 2019

Day 10 - NaPoWriMo

Voicing Silence

I wander along the dyke in full sun, crisp breezes interrupt.
The tide is out, terns congregate to feed and fuss and familiarize.
Between Boundary Bay and the North Shore mountains,
most inhabitants, entranced by phones, miss the signals
of earthquakes building,
of orcas disappearing,
of waters invading,
of forests catching fire.
The land is screaming ‘save me’, yet
it is ignored.


© April 2019

Day 8 and 9 - NaPoWriMo

Lost

a drop of moisture
becomes a mighty river
when magic returns
to this parched earth and change
bullies again day after day


© April 2019

Weeds

green pushes through brown.
blue trickles from the heavens.
pink purple yellow
pokes through emerald and sage.
all colours shine through, haunting.


© April 2019

Day 7 - NaPoWriMo

Blossoms as Crumbs

The early April showers bring, with sunshine,
an idea of cherry blossoms to view. And coastal breezes
toss through branches newly decorated, now sparsely covered,
as petals stray across the grass as toast crumbs litter trays
that should both be cleaned more often. Maybe tomorrow.

© April 2019 

Day 6 - NaPoWriMo

Rising 

Golden orb rising
silent, like butterflies glide,
ever higher through
stars. Like eagles soar aloft,
glimmering iridescence.



© April 2019

Day 5 - NaPoWriMo

Eyes (No Sight)

I cannot see my end, only the path on which I walk
towards the future. There is no hint of pain,
no possibility of immortality, only death. Even if I close my eyes,
the end is real, however unwelcome and regretful.
It is beyond the end I want to see and those I leave behind,
to know that they’ll be safe and will not crumble
when I leave.

It is the river I want to cross, the mountain I want to climb,
the poetry I want to see in books in the hands of others
on a wintery day or a moonlight night sitting on a dock
by a lake I’ve only imagined calming my anxious mind
with an end I cannot see beyond. My eyes show me nothing,
except that I will be alone.

© April 2019

Day 4 - NaPoWriMo

Cake

He asks for a larger slice than I’d given him
I say he needs to watch his weight
He tells me he walked 20 kilometers the day before, geocaching
I shake my head and ask he if he’s checked his blood sugar lately
He laughs
I pause, turning my face towards him
He grins
I regard him questioningly
He sighs
I nod the way out of the kitchen
He puts down his fork and plate and strides into the bathroom
I rest my case (and eat my cake)

© April 2019 

Day 3 - NaPoWriMo

Another day, another attempt.

Flash

A glorious song by Queen for
a so-so B-movie
is now the background music
for a commercial for a new
mobile phone.

After movies and mobiles
are slivers in history, will Queen be remembered
for its choral extravaganzas
or its leader who opened the door to
a conversation about acceptance?


© April 2019 Catherine Woods

Day 2 - NoPoWriMo

Rain

I
An unexpected
dry March flows to a welcome
April spring shower.

II
Boreal forests
need rain, like you and I need
air; everlasting.

III
Clouds bring presents to
you and me and all who care;
celebrate, rejoice.


© April 2019

NaPoWriMo April 2019

It's April again. Time for me to put my thinking cap on and post every day.

Being Stardust

Thanks to Katie Mack

It is any night and you are stardust.
Yes, you are made of stars. Yes, you.
All the carbon, oxygen, and nitrogen that is in you,
that was all made in stars; atoms that a star forged inside itself
or at the moment of its unimaginably violent death, are in you.
Most of your atoms were forged in the Big Bang itself. And you
are the ashes of the Big Bang. At every imaginable level, you are
a creation of the Universe, vast and beautiful.
So if we start as ashes of the Big Bang, it only seems right
that we also end as ashes; to become that which we were.

To think most are missing out on all this wonder; that is so
their loss.


© 2018