Connemara morning

early morning rain
ancient rhythms in the mist
from dreams I awake
still tapping to the music
soft Irish morning welcomes

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Irish pub

thirst for the old ways
beckons the story teller
a pint of black stout

We are spending our first night of our Ireland vacation in Clifden, County Connemara, in the west – Joyce Country.

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Point of View

** I grew up in a world full of Mexican slang that was part of every conversation. Spanglish was my first language, and it was fun to use. My younger siblings never really learned the language. To them, it became a collection of words with funny sounds. For me, the colorful language is an important part of my story, and still fun to use. ¡Órale! **

aguacate cacahuate tata
la lechuga el zacate nana
doesn’t matter what I’m really saying
but only that I’m saying it to you
if by chance attention you are paying
then you will understand this point of view

boca chueca cara fea bato
leche seca agua fría ruco
words alone can never tell my story
but try to listen to the words I pen
if that’s hard well you don’t have to worry
I’ll use more words and then I’ll try again

quihúbole ése
se me chispoteó
estoy nomás turisteando
ni picha ni cacha ni deja batear
estas palabras me van a madrear

 

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another april day

a springtime welcome
the cool breeze across my face
lingering winter

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Some Day . . .

Throughout my life I’ve often wondered if I would ever really know for what work I was created; know if I will ever become the person I was meant to be. Am I exactly where I’m supposed to be? I guess I’ve never stopped looking for the answers. Maybe that’s why I’ve had so many different jobs and played so many different roles in my life. Maybe that’s why I’ve always had a hard time calling any one place “home.” I wonder if I will ever know.

some day
I will know where
I am supposed to be
and know what to do when I get there
but when

some day
I will know who
I was destined to be
and know where destiny takes me
but when

some day . . .

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So it goes…

I actually wrote quite a bit yesterday, but at the end of my day I had nothing to post. I had plenty of words, but no complete thoughts. My brain was full of disconnected one liners and incomplete phrases. I have a tendency to pause when I talk as I search of the correct word to say (which drives people nuts sometimes), and my my mind was doing the same. The problem was, my fingers couldn’t find the write (sic) words. So, it goes.

scatter brain
you talk a lot
but never
there you go
another thought
incomplete
keep it straight
concentrate
think of love
write about food
now
there’s a thought
about how I feel
keep it real
scatter brain

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When did imagination die?

I remember the world my best friend and I created as children. We grew up in a small town in the southwest Arizona desert, and the desert that surrounded us was our playground. With a clear sky and wide open space, our imaginations had no limits. We fought battles with rocks and sticks, against enemies larger than life, and we would always win. The desert hills became mountains with dangerous cliffs and grand summits to conquer. Our adventures were epic. We saved the world every day. We were each other’s heroes back then, and we believed in each other’s dreams. But one day, I’m not sure when, those childhood dreams were replaced by grownup “reality” and imagination seemed to die. I use the word seemed because when my childhood friend and I get together, once a year or less, I can’t help feeling like we never left that world we created in that Arizona desert. Somehow, we still look at each other’s life as a continuation of that adventure that started so many years ago, and we still believe in each other’s dreams. My friend is still my hero.

we were heroes then
and we saved the world each day
defending our dreams
but imagination died
how did our friendship survive

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when the forsythia blooms

I love this time of year, and one of the things I always look forward to is the appearance of the bright, yellow Forsythia blossom. This fascinating plant only blooms once a year, its flowers lasting for about two weeks, but it signals the start of Spring with a blast of color.”When the forsythia blooms, it’s time to prune the roses,” as the saying goes. The forsythia blossom also reminds me that it’s time to trim and prune away those things in my life that keep me from growing and fully being me. It’s time to prune my roses.

Photo by Maureen McHugh-Castro

Photo by Maureen McHugh-Castro

forsythia bush
golden messenger of change
roses await their pruning

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April Day

forsythia bloom
with its bright yellow blossom
change is in the air
lingering sun brings new life
in the wind winter breathes its last

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huh…?

I apologize for this one. I tried writing something worthwhile for a couple of hours (or more), but couldn’t come up with anything worth posting. So, I just started typing – I let my fingers do the thinking – and this is what I got.

I sit down to write
an inspirational verse
but nothing comes to me
it just keeps getting worse

I type then delete
and I try it once more
I just can’t find the words
my head’s getting sore

even this mindless ditty
is just starting to stink
the more I keep typing
the more I can’t think

maybe the words
are not in my head
just maybe the words
are in my fingers instead

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