This song came on our radio last week while we danced together, Willa, Leroy, and I. Nostalgia swept over me. I felt like I used to feel when I was in high school.
I made fried chicken and french fries for dinner later that evening which is a classic representation of my adolescence, too.
I wonder if I'm on the verge of a huge breakthrough. (I obviously am!) And, I've been facilitating ceremony: scheme and dream ceremony for first blood, rites of passage, initiation, blossom bloom. And thinking about poetry therapy. I find myself yearning to work with youth again.
Writing and writing and writing more. I've been submitting to literary magazines, too. Letters sent out, so many letters. I realize how much I love postal submissions because it combines my great love of poetry and letters.
My angel guides are clear, and I'm inspired. How do you communicate with the spiritual realm? Do your guides give you visions? Do you hear voices? Does nature guide you? In your dreams? I've been so guided by words and nature lately. In fact, I'm endlessly inspired by Mary Oliver, who combines both words and nature.
Evidence for Mary Oliver
There is something about the book you wrote— Evidence—
which has me wanting to bury my own evidence
and unearth it with concomitant fistfuls.
Or, bury it to unearth it.
Or, unearth it to bury it.
I have at times wondered if the word evidence,
with its e’s strategically placed
three well-played chess pieces,
has me deeply intrigued.
Ground for belief; that which tends to prove
or disprove something; proof.
Often, by mistake, after a jaunt with the sweet grass
and deep summer and the violets,
I have placed this book flipped
with its words facing up
instead of down like the others on my bookshelf.
I look back to the bookshelf and notice its blue spine
upside down. When I go back to correct it,
I nearly always read “Prince Buzzard” again.
(The book needs no prod to open to page five.)
Oh, sweet vulture, a monk noble and bald and hungry—
your work changes me. You do what others refuse.
Your work is ugly and you work still.
Your work is beautiful and you work still.
Your work is and you work still.
Your work is.
You work still.
The only evidence is in my pink fleshy heart—
the lighthouse blinking to every ship near,
signaling home. And I’m home.