I’ve become fond of a WordPress blogger because he finds profound truth in simple images that evoke a deep resonance. I may not agree with every post; I don’t have to in order to appreciate his writing.
“…long sessions of ruminating is [sic] a virus”
“We are islands by mistake…”
And he finishes with a line of hope, a line of perseverance.
http://depressionmymuse.wordpress.com/2013/03/30/the-wind-carries-my-wailing/
When I saw the title, I knew this book is where I’m at. By no means am I an octogenarian, and I’m double twenty and some.
A collection of connections on aging, I Feel Great about My Hands: And other unexpected Joys of Aging, edited by Shari Graydon, seems just the thing when pronounced with “the knees of a 70-year-old.”
I do fit right in among these women who have come of age, the second age of womanhood and third age of life. Joys of aging. I’ve certainly not heard very many olders through the years who gushed with joy about Continue reading
An army of one
stiffly uniformed in black
marches precisely across
the muddied profile
of our sixteenth president
I listen to a lot of NPR on errands in the car. Thursday nights at 8 is Philosophy Talk. Because it’s National Poetry Month, the topic was poetry and philosophy, and I caught most of the show.
I have journaled most of my life, and my life hasn’t been rosy or well-lit at times. Digging through an old journal file I found my opinion (whose else would I find?) on poetry and philosophy from a letter written to my brother:
Someone asked me what poetry had to do with philosophy. Poetry=personal philosophy, doesn’t it? It is a sorting through…or it is for me. It is the darkness of our lives and minds that we choose to illuminate instead of ignore.
I wish I could say something of significance, something more.
©2006 Sandra Davidson
Since the early 2000′s I have used a voice recorder to capture sleepy moments, time behind the wheel and walking about. Invaluable. The toughest part for me is listening and transcribing the tape, yet if I wait long enough it all seems vague though familiar.
What a pleasure it is to watch the cat wash his face, his ears. Watch his pupils constrict to slits in the sunny window, his angular face a fraction of an inch away from the glass until he forgets himself, talking and chattering to the birds and adds another nose print. To feel him drop from the window sill onto the bed to lie beside me, to purr into my hair and knead the pillow, sun filtering onto us, comforting me in my sickness.
©2005 Sandra Davidson
This poem has become a favorite of G. Emil Reutter,
so I told him he could have it.
Part of him shatters.
In the darkness, on his knees,
he seeks to find peace,
and each piece.
Tears wash from his thoughts
the stains of circumstance
to pool with the blood of
his quilted hands.
By touch, he collects
shards of self and soul
large enough to salvage,
semblances of the whole.
Within his consciousness,
sharp edges tumble smooth.
The final fragment he settles
by touch, coarse and loose.
He blindly glazes this
fragile puzzle of glass,
leading each free form
to meld with the last.
To the twilit dawn
he uplifts the pane;
radiant hues kaleidoscope
through fissured stains.
©2008 http://www.foxchasereview.org/2008/21-SRMoser.html
Sandra Davidson
My niece, age 14; me, age 40.
Nothings built to last </3
Time will outlast it all.
Ik/:
I just hope it doesn’t take long/:
Don’t you know? Time takes its time, and time has forever.
I do that’s the problem!
Exactly. You’re so wise.
A little too wise for my age!(:
Never too wise. Wisdom prevents you from having to live through every one of life’s painful lessons, if you can live through observation instead of experience.
Now, a little too wise-@ss, maybe. 
Haha!
Winds here are gusting near 20 miles per hour. Sometime during the night a door to one of our outdoor storage cupboards broke away to take flying lessons, then falling lessons. The daffodils bow their heads against the rain and gab among themselves, petals and cup crashing in conflict.
©2012 by Sandra Davidson
Traditional Haiku—Monday, March 31, 2009
Who is it we are?
Just seeds among growing change
in the wind and rain.
©2009 by Sandra Davidson
