In one day, I will be ready
to tackle what needs attention:
the unfinished projects,
the unsewn socks
my son gave
to me
In twelve hours, I will be ready
to write the symphony
that will make you
stop and look
at me
In six hours, I will weed the garden
of what is stronger than me,
whether it deserves to grow,
or not
I was here first!
I cannot compete,
so, I will tap dance
and look lovely
for those still watching
in the back rows
I found myself
in the forgotten shadows
of America
Listen!
I'm still here!
Even the stars tick in time
In three hours, I hope less,
the words will freeze her letters,
her letters will melt her lines,
her lines will spill over
into puddles
I am still collecting dimes
I collect kindred spirits . . .
friends who become like family
people congenial and compatible
honest, trustworthy, compassionate
people akin with me in many ways
bound and amalgamated in thinking
affiliated, unified in most things
we are stuck like glue . . .
think and feel things, emotional
though, at times have different viewpoints
which we each respect
we love the same things
birds, fauna, walking, nature
gardening, art, music, hearty debates, writing
and talking over coffee for hours
and thus we are forever
kindred spirits . .
Yards mysterious show
small free range tree huggers climb
with nuts in their mouths
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I find them~
in the cracks of asphalt
in streets and parking lots.
They are copper pilgrims,
their heads bowed down,
waiting for my hand.
Some are slick with rain,
others dull as old bones,
but each one carries
the weight of a wish
someone forgot to make.
I gather them like
tiny suns, warm
from the sidewalk’s breath,
until my pockets sag
with the gravity
of abandoned luck.
I pry one from the teeth of a gutter~
Lincoln’s face half-eaten
by time.
Still,
I take it home,
lay it on the windowsill
where the light
could baptize it anew.
What is a coin
but a story paused mid-sentence?
I am the archaeologist
of small fortunes,
excavating where
no one else looks.
Someday, I will leave them
in places where hands
might need them more~
tucked under bus seats,
balanced on ledges,
for the next believer
to pocket a tiny prayer.
Pick up the trash !!! That you and your friends have left behind.
So there is less trash when you are born next time.
Some religions forget to tell you about your next life.
But go in full depth about your after-life.
Like low tides that go out and.
High tides that come back in.
Heavy rocks stay in their space where dropped.
Yet their ripples go out far and wide in time.
Closed, closed I've been
Since the lifting of the veil
Enraptured with hope
I knew, love could not fail
Oh, but I did not count subtleties
Subtleties that ran like invisible wire
Reaching into the abyss
While enthroning desire
I believed you, every word
Words that told me I wasn't weird
My secrets became your weapons
That rusted away and ground my gears
....to powder
Invest, you want me to invest
In a love that shattered my very soul
Yes, it's true you brought me through
And made me whole
So what's the point
Point me to an answer I can hold
Maybe I could cover my face, again
Because I find TRUTH crass, too bold
My heart, this heart touched by LOVE
Finds the journey frightening, odd
Investing all to experience presence
Intimacy made by a child-like GOD
...to flow
I was in the Ocean....now the Ocean is in me
..........collecting the veil
Written by Trudy Schrader on 11-12-2025
May we be blessed as we go through life…
To collect a lot of mementos and photographs…
of things and moments that brought us joy
that made us smile and laugh.
To keep this items close at hand…
these moments in time with friends and family…
so when we grow older all we need do is visit them
to awaken a memory.
Saqi
I yearn
To pluck these stars
Out of their distant stupor
To hurl them
And watch them explode
In the immeasurable
Distance
I yearn
To thunder
My intentions
to rip down
mountainous curtains
I yearn
To make
Curvaceous inroads
And watch the
Majestic peaks
Bend to kiss the valleys
I yearn
To stride across
Universes and
dimensions
And bend destiny
To merge
My reality
in your presence
Saqi I warn you
Tonight I am restless
And I will not be accountable
For all that I profess
Through my drunk verses
And
For tomorrow's consequences
Saqionahigh
Seema Kj
©SeemaJayaraman
27 Apr 2020
Collecting all manner of things,
From battered old derbies to rings,
He still couldn’t find,
It stayed on his mind,
A three-legged scarecrow that sings.
i thought
being alone
would feel like air—
light and open
but it is heavy here
walls pressing in
rooms filled with
everything i’ve lost
silence
settles like dust
covering pieces of me
i am afraid to lose
i watched you vanish
into air
as if you were never here
and now
i am scared
of becoming something
forgotten
on an empty shelf
but even here
with dust piling up
i will clear the space
and find what is left
of me
like i always do
drop me there, he said
because he loves orange
and he has not seen it since he left Urch19
I feel like I am home, he told the device
the ship lowered him into the field
he dutifully beamed a spray up
to show he had landed safely
there was laughter in the distance
he followed the sounds
discovering several children with an adult
since there were more of them than the teacher
he turned himself into another child
when they returned to the bus
the teacher discovered she had an extra charge
he did not respond to her questions
but she could not leave a child in the wilderness alone
he ended up in foster care
where he got a fast education
how to hotwire cars, what to steal and not steal
how to manipulate a foster parent
distorted data he collected to take back to Urch19.
yards mysteries show
small free range tree huggers climb
with nuts in their mouths
The Passion
It was a burning need
the desire to hold and hoard
not cars or rare antiques
but small and natural things
coloured stones from a beach
pales driftwood’s sculpted forms
parrots’ feathers of every hue
and discarded skin of a snake
such wonders of diversity
a bower built of treasured finds
until they overwhelmed my home
overtook the room for me.
old storm drain collects
discarded trash and wet leaves
carried by rainstorm
(Raven and Crystal)
Papa the Objectifier
Everywhere I look there are objects
Every shelf, table, nook and corner
Everywhere another item
Collected, amassed, treasured and displayed.
And this compulsion, obsession, vocation
Never ends, merely shifts around
Embracing a newfound subject
To objectify.
Papa, what did you do in the war?
What war son? Life is just a bowl of cherries,
And when it’s done we collect the pits
And they collect the bones.
(9/21/23)
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