we live loudly, and dream ever on

 We live loudly,
dancing with parachutes,
eyes pressed against the plumes of wind
from the billowing sails.

xoxo

places

Out on the freeway as the dust of night stretches her lonely palms across the Los Angeles horizon.

 The windows in my VW wagon are wide open and my left hand, placed slightly ajar out the window, moves up and down in the racing wind along the highway as my right hand steers.  As much as this urban expanse is at times a disruptive blight on a once pristine desert, my heart swells with love for this place I call home.  It is a jumbled chaotic mix of heat and humanity: of palm trees, racing cars and soaring aspirations.  I breath in the cooling night air, tasting the plumes of passing diesel engines and the song of sweaty broken hearts. 

 It makes no sense to love this place, no logic at all, but somehow, I do. 

hope you are well my friends. xo

write now | a fall giveaway

 I am thrilled to bits in announcing my very first giveaway. Ever!!

As many of you know, a while back I took the course Write Now with Amanda, author of the blog the Habit of Being and creative director of the literary magazine Kindred.  Amanda is not only a gifted writer, but a talented editor and teacher as well. Under her tutelage, I feel that I learned so much about my own writing, creative and otherwise, and I wish for others to have the opportunity to work with her as well. This is why I am giving a way one spot for her upcoming course of Write Now which begins October 21st. This is the last one that will be offered until after the New Year.

I want reiterate, that I took the course out of a longing, not to become a "Writer," but to deepen my practice of writing/journaling/blogging in hopes of finding avenues to creatively stretch myself; that wish was oh-so fulfilled! However, what I find ever so wonderful about having taken the Write Now course, is that amidst all the hustle of three boys and their busy fall scheduling, I am still finding time to write; time to scrape out words across paper, journal a bit of my feelings, and work out matters of the heart and longings of the soul.

Don't be intimidated. Don't think this is a course where the teacher will pull you up in front of class to mock your essay or jest at your words.  Instead, think of it as a place where you can safely try putting some of your thoughts into words A place where you can safely begin a daily practice that is just for you -a space apart from your day to day.  I think of it as a place for us Creatives, us folk who are learning to tell their own story; who are trying make the intangible, tangible; who want to record the memorable, in all its glory and defeats.

To enter, is simple. Please leave a comment below stating why you would like to take this course.

If you would like to be entered a second, or a third time, (or a fourth, etc...), you have the following options: like my Facebook page, the Habit of Being's Facebook page or Anchor&Plume's FB page; you can follow Amanda on twitter @writealm; or share the giveaway on Google+, twitter, Facebook, or Instagram. Please tag one of us (or just Amanda if you are on twitter) so we can count your entry.  If you are worried we won't see your entry, please leave another comment below letting me know who/where/when/what.

If social media isn't your thing, please send me an email at pomegranateandseeds(at)gmail(dot)com and let me know you would like to be entered a second time.

update!!
++++++++change in time and date of giveaway: Entries will close at noon on October 18th, 2013, PDT(pacific daylight time), United States. The winner will be announced on October 19th. The course begins October 21st.


xxoo

Thank you to all who entered! The winner is Kim Corrigan-Oliver! xxoo

anticipation

 anticipation of fall. of tasting the slow.
of crisp morning mist.
of indian summered afternoons. of gold sunlight.
of the fair leafed aspen, yellow splendidly spread amongst the pine.

anticipation of pears, waiting to be sliced.
of cinnamon dashed across my cider, pressed there.
of the sting of nutmeg, across my nose.
heated ovens, of building pies late into the day.

of sitting, outside under a tree.

of pumpkins round and apples sweet. 

anticipation that lifts the salty sweat off our necks, our damp hair from our chin. 

anticipation calling as we wait for leaves falling, 

tender, crisp, hued red, purpled brown in the fairy lit fall air.

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foliophoto with bedsidesign

thursday wanting

in thursday wanting. in desiring of. 

of deep breaths and of weary mornings. of steep cliffs and lungs tight pulling. 

the call of the canyon below me. of divided seconds. 

of diving under ruckus waves, under the tow. 

when I want to live way out there. on the edge of the quiet. 

on the edge between the mountains and the sea. 

on the edge of wanting. of all things civilized. 

taking my cardboard house pasted with all my imagined belongings,

 folded into my pack. then treading out there ever so hushed, 

as not to disturb the chatter of rooks, the foraging deer. 

these wantings wake me up, crushed coffee bean dreams. 

a hot mug of them as i watch the harvest moon say g'night, 

passing by the hurried dawn that peeks over trees. 

hope you have some thursday wanting too. xxoo

to thine own self. be true

Of objects left behind.
Remnants of the aged;
abandoned under blackened bridges,
lone encampments lost under the soot of covered archways.
Fleeing from the dying gasps of dreams.

Forgotten by children,
Cast aside by lovers.

We gather them up,
tripping through the junkyard of base plans.

We take apart, with hammer,
             with nail, with pen,
                                  and brush,
 the dilapidated, the makeshift, the weak,
the worm-worn wood, gray-eyed with age.

We gather them then,
sliding them back
into our frayed jackets,
our threadbare pockets,
the holes knotted closed,

and hearts shut tight.

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I suspect that no-one finds this assembled army of animals as beautiful as I do. It is silly really, but I stepped outside the other day, and I found my heart tugged upon by their stillness. So I grabbed my camera and took photos of them. To me, I saw something there in their forgotten-ness, in their loneliness. They seemed to be of some sort of forgotten plan. So I took the photos for me, my own stillness, for those moments when I see something that strikes my heart.

I was also so moved to take a course recently, called Write Now.

I have to say I loved it.

Perhaps because I took it indulgently (just for me) or perhaps because I have some unrequited deep desire to write more, I found it incredibly helpful and engaging.  It also gave me something more important: the affirmation of the soul's longing to tell one's own story, to sing one's own song. The beauty of the Write Now course is/was that I didn't ever have to ever aspire to be more than just who I am; never more than who any of us are called to be.

So I am thinking of these things this Tuesday. Of things I do, that are just for me, that end up being fruitful, engaging and soul-filled..such as linking up with bedsidesign for foliophoto.  xxoo

(Here is the link if you are interested in finding out more about Write Now.  The next course starts September 30th.)  xxoo

poetic pause :: the me. alone. separate from all else.

I think about him from time to time.
Down on the beach.
Fishing.
Standing in the shadow of the pier.
The way he would dart across the water,
dancing lightly on tiptoes to the sound of the surf
and the call of his prey shimmering beneath the waves.

wanting to linger

i want to linger on this time. this end of summer. 

i want to linger here in sameness. 

linger in the never growing up and never growing old. 

linger in the good days, ignoring the bad. 

i want to linger here, longer.

linger in your milk dewed cries.
linger in the brush of your eyelashes, the tip of your baby skin elbows.
linger on the scent of dirt on your toddling hands, tied deep beneath your nails.
linger in the kitchen, small sous-chef underfoot.
linger in the tripping and the chasing and the hide-and-go seeking.
linger in the washing of hands, and the ordered brushing of teeth.

i want to linger on goodnight kisses.
linger on the stories and the slow turning of pages,
linger on the words that i read aloud each night.
linger on that small space before falling asleep,
                     exhausted from the day, the sun, the laughing and the learning.

i want to linger on this time. the small end of spared space, when you are so very young.

xxoo

Clara :: Shared on Anchor&Plum Press

 Anchor&Plume Press shared a short (story) I wrote on the season of canning and preserving.

"As the harvest moon approached and the sun slowly tucked into the bed of summer’s edge, Clara and her sister would gather themselves under the aprons of their mother and aunt at the hearth of their grandparents’ kitchen. ...."

Please click through to read the rest and let me know what you think.

 P.S. I would love for you to leave any notes, criticism and feedback over at Anchor&Plume!

a quiet creature

that i could have the chance to fit you into the palm of my hand. 

have your feather light wings bless my skin.

 burnt orange against my unholy white. 

whiskered, and whisked, that you nudge me along, 

off my path, off the beat of my breath. 

mothering, a round, full circle

in a round.
in a circle.
i come back around
to my childhood,
to my home,
looping back,
to the beginning,
to the place where my mother's illness grew.
where the ALS* spread slowly,
taking her body away from her,
taking her away from us.

like the seasons that circle us,
where the cycles encircle us.
round, i spin back
and also forward,
dusting away the thick motes of memory
and the holding pool of hope in my hand.

so i come back,
back around, in a circle,
walking through my childhood
my home. circling around in my mother's thoughts.
circling around death
 and life.

and the strength of my children.
and the strength in my children,
circles, back around,
back around, from my mom to me.
a circle, round, holding me
in.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*ALS is also known in the states as Lou Gehrig's Disease, however abroad it is know as MND (Motor Neuron Disease). There were many visits to Colorado last summer and fall as my mother was dying from ALS. She died this past November of 2012. This is my first visit to Denver since her death. So in this trip, I am very much thinking of her.  

linking in with Lou for her Nature in the Home Series. 

hope you all are well. xxoo

mothering :: poetry in circles

the quiet rim of your glass after milk has been drunk,
stained, a foggy white
with the small circled line left behind
on the deep auburn wooded table.

baby lips circled in a laugh.

blinking back tears made in your saucer cupped cerulean eyes.

life as a mama seems to be made in circles.

the baskets made for carrying,
the circle of the hands that wrapped around you when you were born.

the polka dotted thumb prints on the once clean window,

honeyed golden circles on hot biscuits,
tiny parts crumbling, dancing around your plate.

the way my life encircles yours
then at the end of the day, always circles back around.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

::foliophoto with bedsidesign 

(Sandra from raincoast creative salon is taking the summer off)

next week the prompt is climb. 

Click through to bedsidesign and find out how you can link up and join in the fun!

xxoo

an order :: a summer decree of chaos

and unto us, decreed by the order of summer,
there shall be a slow churning of chaos in our veins.
an unpinned, uncertain future of days that comes with tightrope walking
over a vast open field full of dark dew, fairy-ed fireflies, mint stung clover, and pennyless thoughts.

vague plans crowd our dream filled memories;
there is no bridge across the channel
to sensibility, instead we must hang down upon it,
muck our way through the crowded
days, no direction, no compass,
        tromping through the moored wet grass
        clinging petals at the hem of our soaked feet

until.

until we pull ourselves up
into our desks at autumns gate.
sweaty legged in scratchy classroom air,
blow the shavings of wood and crushed lead off our pencils,
sitting down to scribble instruction once more.

poetic droplet :: soft, the touch of a bee to her favorite flower

i wonder of the soft intimacy of the bee to her favorite flower,

the dusting of pollen across her abdomen,

sipping slow the nectar to make the hived honey. 

poetic pause :: windows

what do I know of another's life but through your door,
through your windowed threshold,
loomed with the thoughtless threads,
covering a barren land, full of forgotten intent.

resilience, hope

and in what we thought were the confines of our humanity, there is hope, there is resilience;
there is a stretching out across the continents, through puddles of blue, and oceans of despair,
hands held together by the common thread of deep love for all of humanity, for all of our children's sake.

we keep our little rafts afloat. we refuse to sink. we refuse to stoop to base convictions that evil should be met with evil and violence met with violence. we meet way out in our tiny little basin of stars, and agree, that as long as we are camping out here on this planet, this little corner, this eternal turning towards the sun and revolving through the ages, we will hold each other accountable to do better.

we will change our tattered pages of history. we will sew down the frayed edges, mend broken spirits and rethread a new story in this quilted milky way of stars.

thank you, every single last one of you, who kept watch in your hearts with me this weekend. who said a kind word on my blog, or hugged their children a bit closer.  thank you, thank you for handing a stranger a look of hope on the street, or offering to carry someone's worries for them.  thank you for your random acts of love and the beautiful dance you create as you step through your day.

thank you for keeping a light on in your hearts, and in your home. xxoo

poetic pause :: wrinkles

but there are stories tucked in those lines.
soft ones, laughing ones.
tattered, dog eared book ends dusty on the shelf.
forgotten and remembered.
a breathing in. a letting go.

tucked inside the creases of a mothballed shirt.
old soul sung young.

and us. us who are afraid to cling to the wrinkled, the old aging breath,

who are afraid of the skin on the over heated milk,
we try to stamp out and smooth down the aged.

so unlike when we were young,
when we parted in and out of the doorways
 with death strung out across our back,
no fear in hiding from the poetry of old age.

taking and talking hands, holding onto the new,
tight closed fists. and in the small bits,
 we wrinkle ourselves,
wrinkles pressed in the creased quivers of living life.

in the breathing in, the folding of hands,

and the breathing out, through time stood young.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

foliophoto :: with the ever talented ladies at besidesign and rainforest creative salon. 

xxoo

a pause :: for small

making scones on a saturday morning. small bits of flour everywhere. the tiniest of bits caught upon the edge of the bowl. in the moments between the pulling together of the flour, the sugar, and the milk; in the moments between the kneading of the batter out on the table and the placing of them into the oven, there are small bits of quiet, a pause of my breath, all caught in a larger busier one: of boys scattered around the living room, peels of laughter in early morning sun; of dogs beneath my feet, a husband sleeping in, and birds whistling their sweet song outside. these small strands of life weave up our larger tapestry.
    a small fraction that fits into the morning,
                     that clicks into place
 on a weekend,
        that completes, someday, perhaps,
a larger whole.

i am sure my boys won't remember the exact scones made on this very day, but i hope they remember the small moments scooped up and threaded into the larger moments of their own story.

this smallness, this insignificance; moments so small, yet so intrinsic, help forge Life so large.  

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

joining in with raincoast creative salon & bedsidesign for fotopholio.

i am over there

hello friends! i am over here this wednesday day. a poem for kindred's online journal at anchor&plume press. 

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xxoo hope you all are well....safe, warm, & loved, where ever you may be this day. 

poetic pause :: energy

energy bound and brought,

love-light entered, and sought.