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Blissful Poems


Solving the Problem of Suffering with a Song

Life is suffering.  I know I need to accept this fact in order to overcome it.  But I want more,  I want something bigger and brighter than sitting down with my fingers in a mudra and thinking life is suffering, just 'assept' it already. I want to solve the problem of suffering, and this blog's unwavering aim is to do just that.  Because yes, bad things happen.  Yes, we suffer. But can we see the beauty in it?  And in doing so, do we not overturn and transform the aforementioned slug of suffering into an awe-inspiring praying mantis?

The discontent I carried for many years has now given way to a newfound freedom and happiness.  Perhaps only temporarily, perhaps because of medical advances, but I will take what I can get!

Quiet desperation is the enemy.   Life is meant to be relished, rejoiced, enjoyed.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

What are you planning to do?  Are you beating the suffering, killing the blues? Click the link to see me sing about this :)



The Daughters of Spring

Don't Mess with Mama Bird by

You are now three and my struggle is rushing , remembering to hold on to your tiny words, pulsing between my daydreams of pressing thoughts and the image of your silly faces in the rearview mirror.

You make me laugh, sing along sweetly to the radio, tell me a story about how Winnie the Pooh dies and then goes to jail. I am supposed to drive, steer, pay attention to the road stay between the yellow lines, and make enough money to fill this damn tank-- not to mention all those dishes in the sink at home.

I try to fit it all into this drive to school, so afraid to lose or fail, and when we arrive, when you flit from the car and float, fairy-like, to the curb you are not looking forward, only into this moment, the blossomed petals on the concrete.

Your eyes sparkle up towards mine and quick as a wink you wave your hand into the pile of  ivory petals, fling them into the air so they drift in the breeze and swirl back to the ground.

My heart rips open like a seed who knows spring is here, right now, and we are her daughters.



Chasing the Muse

I used to take long walks with her, we were lovers

laid side by side.  I fed her with offerings

of strawberry words, avocado melodies.

I floated in the mist of her tears. Her lips smelled

of bergamot and lavendar.

Men and children came and went and she became the distant

memory of my desire.  She walked away through the rainforest

in my dreams each night, fled from neglect.

Now songs choke at the pit of my throat, poems drift off

on stormy clouds.

And how will I lure her now, you ask?  After all these years

and no reunion to speak of?

I will type, I will strum, I will pray 

to whichever goddess hears, and never again

never again lose sight of her.


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Those Who Do Not Dance

A crippled child Said, "How shall I dance?" Let your heart dance We said.

Then the invalid said: "How shall I sing?" Let your heart sing We said

Then spoke the poor dead thistle, "But I, how shall I dance?" Let your heart fly to the wind We said.

Then God spoke from above "How shall I descend from the blue? "Come dance for us here in the light We said.

All the valley is dancing Together under the sun, And the heart of him who joins us not Is turned to dust, to dust.

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