an hour’s inventory

in the shadow of the butte –
the river, its stones,
the ghost-shells of
two crickets, and
a fly breaking
the surface
of a rill,
but never
its song

© Sarah Whiteley

all that glitters

I’m finding art to be my much needed “de-stress” meditation recently. For a few hours every other day or so, I’ve been losing myself in line and color.

It’s been a blessing to not be thinking about anything other than what’s happening beneath my pen or paints. And I’ve discovered that the more I do this, the greater my patience grows and I actually take my time with each piece. And I’ve been enjoying challenging myself to paint things I’ve never painted before. Like this goldfish, which will be a gift for a wonderful person who loves goldfish and whose birthday is coming up soon.

For a while, I think, the poetry will be on the sparse side while I enjoy the paints and ink. Be well!

commencing countdown

In just a little more than 40 days, I’ll be driving south on the 307 on my way from Cancun to Tulum. This trip has been in the works for several months now, but it didn’t really hit me until the day before yesterday that I’ll soon be standing with my toes in the sand on that beyond gorgeous stretch of beach.

I’ll be going solo again, and that’s ok. I’ve been feeling the urge to flee and regroup for a while now and traveling alone gives me the opportunity to not only do that but also to write, play with the camera, gaze at the stars, and reflect a bit on the major changes I’ve tackled this year (admittedly, some of those changes have tackled me instead). Of course, the amazing shrimp tostadas and fresh guacamole won’t exactly hurt.

I’ve learned my lesson from the last time I put myself through a full day of travel (I get beyond grumpy). That first morning in Tulum, I will be walking the labyrinth at sunrise as a way to center myself, cast off the unnecessary baggage, and squash the grump in me. (Methinks I need one of these at home!)

there is something that has been lost

there is something
that has been lost
the elms tell it
when the wind is high
and twisting through
the yellow leaves with
the restless uncertainty
of long-parted lovers
and mid-arabesque a cloud
of starlings senses an absence
so suddenly they are startled
into unaccustomed silence
while daily now the birch
weep their griefs into piles
for the dark-eyed juncos
to skitter through
casting about the damp
as if to descry what it is
we have somehow missed
there is something
that has been lost
and every bright leaf
bends to remind us what
we would know it
if only we stopped
long enough to listen
if we could only
still ourselves
enough to hear
as it slips by

© Sarah Whiteley

Aruban Meditation

this day I,
with the calm cadence
of waves beyond blue,
will breathe the sea
and recall roots
that delve deeper
than the everyday
beginnings finger deep
into sugared sands
and float free
with fronds fluttering
green-fingered farewells
to invented obligations
this day I,
with the quiet certainty
of knowing oceans,
of fathoming the fall
of light on upright arms
and upraised faces
loving long the heat
of slow island hours,
will let time
in slow caresses
smooth calming cure
into care-drawn core
this night I,
with the deep peace
of wafting winds
and the teasing kiss
of an Aruban moon,
will lie as the lizards
upon the shore
beneath forever
and bask in the sigh
of Caribbean skies

© Sarah Whiteley