This is a beautiful poem, Rachel. The lines flow and sing, and are magical. "My life's gift is inside me. It is me, It has been, always, ready for my acceptance, anytime I want." So sweet and powerful! What a special gift!
I've been writing a lot of poems for and about my mom, and the word "gift" made me think of her immediately. She's in the long slide of Alzheimer's right now, and poetry has been a way for me to make it through the strange grief of her memory loss. Here's my poem for her today:
I am remembering gagging on that smushed up stuff they were serving my mom in the nursing home, trying to show her its not that bad. I signed her out and we went to the big T-burger drive thru, ate in the truck. Good stuff.
This is beautiful, Katie. Sweet, tender and so very real. My mother-in-law, a wodnerful person, has been in cognitive decline for some time, and each visit she is a little further away from the Mom her children, including my partner, have known all their lives. Thank you for sharing . your love of and for your mom. Blessings to you both.
What a gift it has been to be here with you all this month 💜
Yesterday, though I didn't know it at the time, I gifted myself the grace to not try to write anything on the prompt. What felt complicated yesterday, I can see today was a gift.
To say "thank you"
To say "you owe me"
To say "I thought of you"
To say "there is always enough"
To say "I miss you"
To say "there was a sale on strawberries and I know how much you love strawberries"
To say "I got you"
To say "no worries"
To say "we're connected"
To say "this sucks so I got you this thing"
To say "it'll work out"
To say "all I can give, I will"
To say " this is right nice".
Lisa, this poem and you are a gift.
Gifts
Don’t get caught up
in the neatly wrapped ones
with frilly bows
that show up
as obligatory observations
of special days and seasons.
Turn the focus
of your heart,
if not your eyes,
toward the subtle
but sacred offerings
that seem random
and surprise you
by the joy of their arrival.
These are among
the cosmos’ daily invitation
to recognize and remember
who you are
and whose you are;
and in the depth of this beauty,
you will recognize the rhythm
of a universal code,
singing the tune
that is the gift of you.
This is a splendid poem, Todd, which you consistently and daily share with us. Thank you. These lines are true gifts, especially:
"Turn the focus
of your heart,
if not your eyes,
toward the subtle
but sacred offerings
that seem random
and surprise you
by the joy of their arrival."
Pure magic. Thank you!
If God did not love us
She would not have given us gifts
like flowers
birdsongs
sunsets
and poets
Love this!
Amen, j.h.!
The chickadees
were the first
to see the seeds,
strewn, as they were,
so eagerly. One flew
closer immediately,
inspecting the gift
and eyeing us warily.
I'd like to think that,
one day, they may
accept it freely,
knowing, with no
hesitation, that the
sowing is done
most lovingly,
a quiet offering.
I can see this scene unfold as I read your poem. So lovely ❤️
What a lovely poem, A. It is indeed a quiet offering. Your poetry and you are a gift.
THINGS
.
.
Don't give me more stuff.
What do i do with more stuff.
I have more stuff than i will ever use more than once, anyways.
.
And no more gift cards, please.
I keep forgetting where I put 'em.
.
Just gift me some out.
Just you and me.
.
a ballgame. an art thing.
maybe get some ice cream.
that's what old people like, right?
a record store.
I heard vinny's vinyl
is open on sundays.
Or maybe a burger, a
real, non-vegan burger from a
real greasy spoon cafe that plays
real country music.
Sweet tea, nasty ass chili fries
on the side. I'll buy.
.
Somewhere.anywhere.nowhere.
Doesn't matter where.
.
Just gift me some out.
Just you and me.
.
ask for some advice
that you'd never actually take.
.
Ask to hear some sea stories.
pretend like its the very first time, even when you and I both know it's not.
.
laugh real laugh with me.
I like to laugh.
.
Just gift me some out.
Just you and me.
.
And don't keep looking at your watch.
.
.
.
.
(thought I would try not counting syllables this time)
(scared myself)
Love it!
Great work, Chuck! I'll meet you at the diner!
I often wonder
If life is a gift or a responsibility
Am I to feel grateful for the offering
Or humbled, sometimes awed
By the necessity of
Doing more, being more
So I get lost in the doing
And fastening the ribbons of
Expectation, desire, and need
Trying to thread myself into
The correct design, safely
Repackaging myself as someone else,
More presentable, more valuable
When I should remember that
Regardless of the trimming
Enclosing or composing of
My outward being,
Life’s gift is inside me
It is me,
It has been, always,
Ready for my acceptance, anytime I want.
This is a beautiful poem, Rachel. The lines flow and sing, and are magical. "My life's gift is inside me. It is me, It has been, always, ready for my acceptance, anytime I want." So sweet and powerful! What a special gift!
I've been writing a lot of poems for and about my mom, and the word "gift" made me think of her immediately. She's in the long slide of Alzheimer's right now, and poetry has been a way for me to make it through the strange grief of her memory loss. Here's my poem for her today:
.
Nose to nose, swaddled close
you gave me my first
home in this world
held me in love
from the start
.
you always said:
what you give out
you get back
.
you held me in love and
taught me the enduring
reciprocity of care
Your story reminds me of something I wrote many years ago for a dear friend whose mom was *in the long slide.*
This year fades into next;
faces and places blend into
an oatmeal gruel of tasteless memory,
if we focus only on
the names and numbers.
But when it’s eyes and smiles we file away,
and joyous moments on the way,
when time stands still and sunlight
bathes our hearts with joy too deep for words,
then years and faces, names and places
become the insignificant backdrop
against which grace paints.
So when I see your eyes aglow and
catch that fox-sly grin, I’ll surely know
you’re passing on to me
a priceless loving memory
of what life’s purpose is meant to be.
I’ll file it away so I can share it too,
someday, when love becomes
the only measure.
I am remembering gagging on that smushed up stuff they were serving my mom in the nursing home, trying to show her its not that bad. I signed her out and we went to the big T-burger drive thru, ate in the truck. Good stuff.
"When love becomes the only measure." This brought me to tears - in a way filled with grace. Thank you for sharing this poem ❤️
This is so beautifully tender and full of love, Todd. Thank you.
The tears just started flowing. I wish I would've known about poetry when we were dealing with our parents. It helps so much!
This is beautiful, Katie. Sweet, tender and so very real. My mother-in-law, a wodnerful person, has been in cognitive decline for some time, and each visit she is a little further away from the Mom her children, including my partner, have known all their lives. Thank you for sharing . your love of and for your mom. Blessings to you both.
Rocks and sticks fill my
pockets. My children share their
love while on our walk.
Yay! Our children are true gifts!
What a gift it has been to be here with you all this month 💜
Yesterday, though I didn't know it at the time, I gifted myself the grace to not try to write anything on the prompt. What felt complicated yesterday, I can see today was a gift.
A wonderful insight, Sarah!
Gifts
The magic of Christmas
The excitement of birthdays
Pretty bows
Shiny paper
The thrill of unwrapping
The gift of life
The promise of a new day
Friends
Family
The love of connection
Is it better to give
or to receive?
Or is it the bridge
we build in
the act of giving
that is the true beauty of
Gifts
The bridge we build - beautiful Jane 💜
This is sweet and special, Jane. These tender lines are beautiful:
"Is it better to give
or to receive?
Or is it the bridge
we build in
the act of giving
that is the true beauty of
Gifts."
I wrapped this box
And tied it with string.
You did the reverse,
What a wonderful thing.
The alpha & omega of gifting.
excellent.
So nice, A.M. Pure joyful magic in four precious lines!
The best gift I've received recently has been this experience.
Daily lullabies of pink stained sunsets,
Sunrises and clear skies.
Playful clouds on the horizon
painting palettes of molten butter.
Eyes holding the sea
my ancestors have chosen to live below.
Hair flat as the straw rooftops that hid them
from the nightly graspings of the Wild Hunt.
A mother with soft hands
And a father with a soft voice.
A brother with a soft heart
and grandmothers with soft skin.
What gifts I have been given.
This is so lovely. Such beautiful imagery.
thank you!
Presence is a Gift you
Give to Yourself
The Gift of returning
To yourself, your home
The home in your chest
The place where you rest
The ultimate Gift
Presence, not presents
Far more valuable
Than stuff, dollars or cents
Presence, literally the Gift
That keeps on Giving
So you bow with grace
And accept your own offering
Very grateful for the gifts of this space and these amazing poets.
The Gift
^
This day is a gift.
This time
This place
This moment.
A precious gift.
A graceful arc of dancing particles
flowing mindfully into the light.
Small acts of kindness,
intentional or random,
stepping stones
to a world
abundantly loved.
Gratitude for
this present moment,
this one more day.
A gift,
This gift.
This precious gift.
the smell of your scalp
the blueberry-stained kiss
the scrapes on your knees
the stories about the musician
the pound of your bongos
the tears when you thought
you were lost
the patter of your questions
the time to be in your timeless sphere
the time to be
the time