Category Archives: Observations

Home at Kawphy Hill

My favorite part of my home is if you stand

at the bottom of my kitchen steps

looking towards the front door at around 8PM

when the traffic returns home from their workday

my disco ball chandelier confetti’s my foyer

with dance party festivities.

My favorite part of my home is

if you sit on my back deck under my ancient oak

while the chickens are bathing in the dirt or

scratching where my Hosta’s used to grow and bloom

you can hear St. Thomas on one side, 4th Reformed

greeting midday with their church bells

My favorite part of my home is

if it rains, any amount at all, the basement

because of the slope of our just under quarter acre,

floods rudely sopping the carpet

but not the floor unless it’s a ridiculous amount

which you’d know nothing about here.

A favorite part of my home is found,

almost as much and as frequently,

as the obligatory Kawphy

served in: brewed, pour-over, cappuccino, or Keurig,

because one type isn’t enough when you love it,

are the multitude of teas that can be brought to life

nearly as instantly as the hot pot can boil.

My favorite place in my home is my mailbox.

I feel like “Walking on Sunshine” knowing maybe…

That today might be the day that one of several

who write me frequently may have done so.

They never fail to lift my spirits, bring me joy,

remind me that I matter in the great white north,

in the deep rainy south, in the breezy southwest,

No matter what or where, I am uplifted in their love.

My second favorite part of my mailbox is the flag.

When I see it up, then down, knowing maybe…

they will also know they are loved by me unequivocally.

Another favorite part of my home is my studio

It is my place of solace and solitude

where I can stretch my head and heart

to write whimsical or paint darkness.

I can embrace the mood of muse intimately

without pride or caution as she warms me thickly.

But what I love more than any of those things,

what gives me purpose to breathe life into the walls,

to shovel out the walk for the fourth time today,

to sort the recycling and the trash every Wednesday night

are my family.

Punky the Chihuhua, Herbie the turtle,

Louise, Fifty, Julie, Roy, and Maude the chickens,

(Two of which are indoor and wear diapers)

Our pet Human, Will, that I found on a street corner,

guitar strapped to his back as he headed out to busk

one freezing sunny snowy Sunday morning a couple of years ago.

Back then, he asked for a warm place to sleep for the night,

he’s never left and I don’t want him to, neither does Ben.

Without Ben the Great or me, we aren’t the we,

that make our Home at Kawphy Hill

Energy Raising

My hips give off special magic, they ring morning vesper bells

coaxing sinners from their beds, they call to worship at the bethel

My hands offer up a special magic, they pull miracles large or miniscule

ever a vessel, a spiritual homestead, within me always dwell.

Sing we now in loud HOSANNA! Sing we now in great HOORAH!

Create the place of holy word from your lips to the ears of your God!

Anarchy

Revolution!

Redemption!

You can’t have it with your vintage views.

No labels

Who am I? Who are you?

Comfort zone boundaries

self-safety at what cost?

Sirens make me nervous

Thanatos was silent…until he wasn’t.

Then I was introduced to him as an unwilling lover

What owns you?

Person?

Thing?

Why is order so important if Anarchy is freedom?

Holydays

Grey skies are a time to create

A time when promises are made

Rainy days are for remembering

that love, light, and God will return.

These are the days for hope and puddled reflections.

Sunny days hold obligations

forcing outdoor commitments

“If the weather’s nice…”

Sunny days are for rejoicing,

loving uninhibited, singing praise,

gratitude for the days of rest.

Blazing Bonfire

I’m watching the orange hat man in the red flannel shirt and black gloves drink beer and toss corn hole.

His game partner is more pale of skin, wearing Lions jacket and a black hat. I suspect he is a Ryan or Chad, possibly a Todd.

The lattice fence behind them holds the picket porch at arm’s length.

A burst of laughter erupts. Orange hat guy has the orange bag that he curls in circles in his hand.

When he releases the bag at the top of the arch, his hand is like a painting in a city-scape for urban happiness.

A smolder plumes lightly with the breeze that precedes the storm threatening the evening hours.

Flap-flap hat and baseball cap are covering up the fire or adding up a larger stash.

Orange hat guy lights up a smoke. He has…HOLY BLAZES of black smoke and Christmas trees!

They’re all watching it burn. The pine tar smoke rises thick with quick and danger because the speed changed.

They’re up by the garage where I sometimes pass at night.

They’re pouring more gas. I’m slightly afraid of the large tree within wind distance from their need to burn.

Flap-flap hat guy is smoking a cigarette. He has a mustache. He reminds me of my brother and his friends before the military.

Baseball hat guy wears his brim forward and sports a full beard and mustache set neatly trimmed. Probably married.

Corn hole continues. Black and orange teams throw up-handed and across board.

Black hat dude just pissed by the garage with his back to me. His shoulders shook as he finished.

Orange hat dude paraded through the back yard with a baby in pink jacket and red polka dot dress. She flew above the fence.

Cloak of Life

I.

When I was first born, swaddled in a blanket was I

with a white cotton diaper wrapped four corner

pinned with non-fancy pink or yellow ducks (Don’t pin the baby)

plastic pants singing to my cooing grandparents.

I was cloaked in the life of infantile adoration

II.

In most neighborhoods, much like yours or yours

there is a coming of age where you must decide

the grade of sheets you wished to slumber upon

Prison grade? Military Grade? Dorm Grade? Or

Hand-me-down childhood covered in favorite cartoons?

Cloaked in hope and ambition!

III.

When you lay your head upon your lover’s breast

Thump-Thump! Thump-Thump! Thump-Thump!

Dreaming awake together of chronological success

House-Car-Kids! House-Car-Kids! House-Car-Kids!

D-d-divorce! (Like a trumpet)

Grow Old! (Like a lighthouse horn)

Remarry (Like “Jane, his Wife” from the Jetsons)

Don’t Worry, Die Happy (Like Bobby McFerrin who is inspiring AF)

Cloaked in life’s chaotic awe inspiring wonder (Like you)

IV.

The final shroud laid

body of dust beneath

Charon has been paid

tormented bequeathed

A soul’s end masquerade

buried in frozen heath

Grieve the mother’s serenade

laying the cloak of life’s wreath.

Believe Me (TRIGGER WARNING!!!)

Do me a favor when I tell you I’m afraid?

Believe me.

I’m not one to go throwing around dark shade,

Believe me.

I’m giving you a name of the person I don’t trust.

Believe me.

I’d rather look a fool than you hear ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Believe me.

Don’t dismiss my feelings like I don’t have a reason,

Believe me.

I’ve known who he is since I met him Christmas season.

Believe me.

He’s the reason when I walk I recite the Lord’s Prayer.

Believe me.

He’s the reason I need to know where you are to prepare.

Believe me.

I genuinely need you to hear me and believe me.

Believe.

ME!

A Royal Visit

Persephone

The blistering wind whistled ice upon my cheeks

the dreary, newsprint colored mountains of labored snow

tower dominion over belching, exhausted cars and trucks

I trudge in divots of icy footprints, slick with travel

As I step from the shade of the building into the lemon sun

Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, Daughter of Spring

illuminates the air in floral scented bursts of joy

She paused, face down-turned as she adjusted her boots.

Her pink-champagne hair refracting the prismatic light

She lifted her face reverently, flowers flowing from her fingers

falling from her shoulders in graceful cascades as

She stripped off winter to tie it around her waist.

She caught me staring, I hadn’t realized I’d stopped.

She grinned unabashedly as I bowed my head to her.

She strolled past me with the confidence of royalty

i bowed as lilacs trailed behind her.

Fifteen minutes of Flame

HONK! The beeping squall announces sacrament.

Ruffle of coat as the door becomes locked against the world

With a practiced swirl the coat is laid down over his bag

Puppy howls and purring clucks sing greeting.

Fluffed heads and ruffled butts, affection gifted.

Maybe fifteen minutes then the worship service is over,

He vanishes like an unanswered prayer.

I am blinded by my faith, accept it as my truth

even as I’m told I’m a sinner:

“You do this.”

“This is your fault.”

“You don’t have courtesy.”

“(s i l e n c e f o r w e e k s)”

“FUCK YOU!“

As I kneel at my altar after giving all I’m able,

it isn’t enough because I’m not whole-y holy.

I am “The Chosen One.” I am “loved dearly, but,”

This church is beginning to feeling like a silent prison.

I meditate in deep communion to ponder pontificated parole.

Sondering

I want to talk about the people that are peripheral to your every day. In my life, they are the bus drivers that work so I can get around town. They are the retail workers that ring up my purchases at the stores where I shop. The gas station attendant who explains I can save a couple bucks if I grab another off the shelf holds a special place. Just people doing what they do.

But then if you realize that their lives are as rich as your own with complex relationships, health issues, families, hobbies, friends, etc; the world explodes. It’s as if, like your own family tree, they expand into an infinity. When you see everyone as intricate parts of one another, things get fascinatingly complex.

But we don’t typically enjoy complex. We’d rather look past that woman in the beautiful dress that manspreads. We’d rather not realize that the armrest we’ve been using was someone’s leg that they kept crossed because you were unwittingly borrowing it. It’s like we put on blinders to the lives that are happening around us to maintain simplicity.

That really isn’t very human of us and yet it is perfectly human. It’s like looking at a painting but only seeing the picture, not the colors. We gray out the things we don’t want to pay attention to like a speed reader does for the words, not letters. We do a human shorthand so our brains can remain focused on our thoughts, emotions, and reactions. We can ignore the background noise without having to actually participate.

When I ride the bus, I do my best to be mindful of the people I’m riding with. It’s not out of fear or anxiety, but more like an observation of my surroundings. I’ve found some pretty great people to talk to about many different topics. I’ve discovered, as I’m walking to or from the bus, secret codes embedded on the sidewalks. I’ve found trinkets such as a honking duck, a tiny bird that got stunned on the glass windows of GVSU, dollar bills, and even a guy who loved my art and bought one of my pieces.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BpAPrKxHp8W/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet

I challenge you to reach out to the world by opening up your eyes and turning up the color. See if you can guess their story about their appearance without asking. Make up their backstory so that you can practically sit down at their dinner table as their invited guest. See how quickly their lives become full and rich with color and flavor.

Make up their relationship with the person sitting far away from them. See if you can make them meet in your head. What will the conversation be like? Will it be angry? Long lost? Happy? A reuniting of high school BFF’s? Who have they lost in their life? Why is that important to the narrative?

I’m asking you these questions because at the beginning of the new year, I am to begin writing one of four books to be completed by the end of 2019. I’m a procrastinator so I’m going to give you a brief synopsis of each:

  1. (Working Title) Seventeen Days: A love story: A woman estranged from her best friend takes a road trip to rescue her. Their reunion is a wild adventure.
  2. (Working Title) Talking to the Ceiling; Looking to the Sky: A spiritual evolution that occurs when a woman seeks to release her anger toward God.
  3. (Working Title) The Fireman’s Son: A loving father describes life as a Fireman via letters to his deployed son during WWII.
  4. (Working Title) The Loves of Clara: A woman born in the early 19th century leads a secret life as a famous artist.

And there you have it. Why don’t you help me out here and comment which book you’d read first and why. It might help me narrow down my choices. I’ll let you into my world so you can sonder around as a repayment, how’s that?