What to call my self

daisies at springbrook . nmd

How do you think about yourself? I am a person, in accordance with other people, out of my own personality, and from things that I find to be interesting. Quite late in life, fairly lately that is, I found that I don’t necessarily have any control over what people think of me, no matter what I do. Just imagine. But mostly there are very few that even think of me at all.

I am thinking that people need to label and sort to be able to communicate. But labels can be a general thing. And labels are as different as each perspective.


i pick it up
look at it
check for the message
write thoughts
there is music
and books to hear
write thoughts
i could look
at this all
of my life
it is my life line
with no line
an invisible connection
my fingers touch
the glass
it lights up
my light my companion
i look at it
everything else
a blur

the gift

The gift of enough

in the hill country of texas

a place of God’s people

but only a few were


my room mate

going through divorce

used most of the

space in the room

her belongings

strategically thrown


and in

our own sweet

and miserable

sadness we were


i felt


and alone

there, as well as

at home

i came

to do art

for… something

there i was

in the art studio

at night

the lights went out

i knew

i had to walk through the

stunted growth of trees

in the dark

i remember

the candles

i saw that day

in the next building

in the now darkened

and colourless center

why did i

look in that drawer

earlier that day

i don’t remember

but i remembered the matches

i made my way there

the door unlocked

i lit a candle

held it up

above my head

to see


to take a step

maybe two


it….. was

a frighteningly




in the woods

a whisper

to my heart

when i was listening

it saw me through

and i suppose

i want to believe

to have hope

within everything

in moments of our time…



Electric light had nothing over the full moon of a sweet midwest September night.

All life illuminated in a soft presence.

As if time could not possibly be wasted, because it stood still, face to face with grace.


Travel the word

IMG_0943 (1)

Travel always takes you home.
And so does reading.
If you want to write a poem,
and don’t know where to start, you can start with ideas from many places.

Let’s say, quotes.
“I have found that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.” -Mark Twain

And you can start with a subject.
How about a place that you would like to go?

Desert Places
be Robert Frost

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it – it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less –
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars – on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.



The Travel Poem

people inside commercial air plane

Photo by Sourav Mishra on Pexels.com


by Sarah Arvio

One said to me tonight or was it day
or was it the passage between the two,
“It’s hard to remember, crossing time zones,

the structure of the hours you left behind.
Are they sleeping or are they eating sweets,
and are they wanting me to phone them now?”

“In the face of technological fact,
even the most seasoned traveler feels
the baffled sense that nowhere else exists.”

“It’s the moving resistance of the air
as you hurtle too fast against the hours
that stuns the cells and tissues of the brain.”

“The dry cabin air, the cramped rows of seats,
the steward passing pillows, pouring drinks,
and the sudden ridges of turbulence. . .”

“Oh yes, the crossing is always a trial,
despite precautions: drink water, don’t smoke,
and take measured doses of midday sun,

whether an ordinary business flight
or a prayer at a pleasure altar. . .
for moments or hours the earth out of sight,

the white cumuli dreaming there below,
warm fronts and cold fronts streaming through the sky,
the mesmerizing rose-and-purple glow.”

“So did you leave your home à contrecoeur?
Did you leave a life? Did you leave a love?
Are you out here looking for another?

Some want so much to cross, to go away,
somewhere anywhere & begin again,
others can’t endure the separation. . .”

One night, the skyline as I left New York
was a garden of neon flowerbursts–
the celebration of a history.