WolfDreamer Embraces His Wild Poet

[WolfDreamer]

 

Welcome all to my next challenge. I know my presence here was scarce last few challenges, and I cannot guarantee that won't be the case again this challenge. I almost chose to not participate in this challenge, but I'm starting to feel as if I need it. My family and I recently experienced a loss that I will discuss in a later post. But I will do my best to show up, both for myself and for my fellow Adventurers.

 

If you have followed me for some time, for this challenge you can assume all the other daily habits are locked into place (early rise, prayer/meditation, scripture, daily workouts, running trails, etc.). However, for this challenge I am going to focus on a few new healthy habits that I would like to implement, as well as a few extra but relevant challenge goals that hopefully become regular habits, as well.

 

• 30 burpees daily
• daily breathwork (practice with a variety of styles)
• read, write, and share a poem a day (even if it's bad and even if it's short)

 

 

My purpose for this challenge is inspired by a quote from Robert Bly:

 

"My feeling is that poetry is also a healing process, and then when a person tries to write poetry with depth or beauty, he will find himself guided along paths which will heal him, and this is more important, actually, than any of the poetry he writes."

 

As I shared in my last challenge thread, I used to write poetry, but it's been years. My recent interest in the mythopoetic movement has re-ignited my creativity and my poetic mind. It really is incredible how thinking poetically changes how you view the world. There is a language to poetry than seems internal and sort of... ancestral. 

 

 

Most importantly, as Bly said, I need to heal. I am not broken or damaged, but I am definitely wounded. My hope is that my re-ignited passion for poetry will help with this.

 

So, in a sense, I will continue to channel my inner wildness but incorporate poetry as a tool for tapping into that part of myself, as well.

 

 

 

[Tanktimus the Encourager]

You make poetry sound so much better than I have often perceived it. 

[TimovieMan]

You had me at "Dead Poets Society"... 🙂

[WolfDreamer]

Just a few of the tools for success for this challenge:

 

 

 

 

 

 

And of course a pen and my journal. I am also collecting my poems in a Google Docs file.

[WolfDreamer]

15 minutes ago, Tanktimus the Encourager said:

You make poetry sound so much better than I have often perceived it. 

 

Thank you. My opinion of poetry has definitely changed over the years.

 

5 minutes ago, TimovieMan said:

You had me at "Dead Poets Society"... 🙂

 

One of my favorite movies of all time. It's the movie that inspired me to become an English teacher. One year, a group of my seniors stood up on their desks on the last day of school, looked at me and said, "O Captain! My Captain!" I nearly wept.

[TimovieMan]

16 minutes ago, WolfDreamer said:

One of my favorite movies of all time. It's the movie that inspired me to become an English teacher. One year, a group of my seniors stood up on their desks on the last day of school, looked at me and said, "O Captain! My Captain!" I nearly wept.

Yikes. I'd be bawling. Just like I do whenever I watch that movie...

[WolfDreamer]

For Zero Week I will be sharing poems I wrote recently. I have written 8 so far. Before I share the poems for today, let me give a little background. Trigger warning if you have lost a pet and are still processing your trauma or if you are sensitive to the death of small animals.

 

Spoiler

Last week, our little twelve week old Charlie pup fell ill. At first, we thought maybe it was just a cold because he had a mild cough and was vomiting mucus. The next day, he would not eat and he wasn't acting like his normal hyperactive self. We tried spoon feeding him baby food and eventually had to syringe feed him. He was still drinking water, but he was also still vomiting mucus and had some diarrhea. Within a few days, his vomiting became more frequent, his diarrhea worse, and he was lethargic and sleepy. Thursday night I brought his bed into the living room and slept next to him. I awoke around 3:15 am, decided to check on him, and saw that he had messed his bed several times overnight, and it was clearly bloody. A few hours later, I drove him to the vet. He tested negative for parvovirus, but the vet said false negatives can occur, and she was convinced he had it. Because of our finances are currently tied up with the house remodel, we could not afford hospitalization, so they sent him home with antibiotics and recommended euthanasia if the did not improve in 12-24 hours. I brought him home, gave him his first dose of antibiotics, and laid him in his bed. I sat in the room with him and could hear that his breathing was labored. In less than an hour, I could hear his breath hitch a few times. I put my hand on him and stroked him. It hitched a few more times, and then he exhaled, his mouth foaming just a little, and then he was gone. I called my wife and told her, both of us weeping. When I hung up, I crawled into my bed and allowed myself to just scream and cry into my pillow, letting out both my sadness and my frustration (at myself, at the unfairness of it, at my helplessness). When I was mostly finished crying, I walked next door to my neighbor and asked if he could help me bury him. He agreed, and I wrapped him in his blanket, and we buried him down by the river where he loved to walk with me; I buried him with his favorite toy, and I cried again.

 

I'm still working through this loss. This morning I got out of bed and put my feet on the floor right where his bed used to be. The floor made a squeaking sound that to my grieving ears at first sounded like the whine of a puppy. Tears came again, and I got up and walked outside, taking our other dogs out to use the bathroom. I stood on the edge of the hillside looking out at the river, and as a way to work through my grief I spoke to Charlie. I told him I loved him and I missed him. And then I said, "I'm sorry, Charlie." And then I was reminded of that catchphrase and how often I heard it as a kid, and I said it again. "Sorry Charlie." And then I laughed, and laughed, and cried, and laughed through my tears. I know it will take some time, and I know that I will always remember him. But for now I need to grieve without shame and without regret.

 

These two poems came to me in the midst of processing what I shared above. They make sense without knowing the background, and oftentimes the best poems are those whose meaning are your own, not the poets. But sometimes knowing can deepen your understanding and make the poem more meaningful for you.

 

THE MIND IN GRIEF

 

The mind in grief 

is a sweater nearly come undone

The threads tempting tendrils

With names like

What if...

You should have...

If you had only...

Why didn't you...

Don't pull that one

Or that one

You'll ruin the whole thing.

 

AFTER CHARLIE

 

No matter what you think you know

there is disparity

a deep pain in the pit of your gut

a reluctance to letting go

of man or animal

 

Twelve weeks or twelve years

hurt incongruously and antagonistically

 

Too young to understand what was happening

defenseless and forlorn as I was

to prevent the pain and sickness from coming to him

 

And now?

an empty space where his bed used to be

garbage bags filled 

with stained and sickened squeaky toys

blankets and bedding afflicted by his absence

memories that haunt the hallways of my heart

[Stronkey Kong]

 

Sorry for you, your family, and Charlie.

[Ann of Owlshire]

It’s a beautiful challenge, I’m so sorry for what it’s come out of. *hugs*

[WolfDreamer]

On 5/3/2021 at 12:05 AM, Stronkey Kong said:

 

Sorry for you, your family, and Charlie.

 

On 5/3/2021 at 2:39 AM, Ann of Owlshire said:

It’s a beautiful challenge, I’m so sorry for what it’s come out of. *hugs*

 

Thank you both. They say the best art is birthed from pain. I don't know if I believe that totally (mostly because I feel like I've written better poems than these two), but I do know that expressing my hurt creatively is very powerful therapy for me.

 

This morning was a little less painful. Still feeling his absence, but...

• woke up and said the Lord's Prayer as soon as my feet touched the floor, followed by a more personal prayer
• read/watched a devotional on YouVersion 
• listened to a guided contemplative prayer using the Pray As You Go app
• completed three rounds of WHM breathing (2:04, 1:58, 2:11); also stood in horse stance for 1 minute and completed 21 push-ups without breath
• took a cold shower (2 minutes warm, 3 minutes cold)
• took the dogs outside while barefoot and shirtless; stood still and felt my feet press gently into the earth
• completed 30 burpees-to-squat-press exercises using a cinderblock (10 in the morning, 10 in the afternoon, and 10 in the evening)

 

While rummaging through my personal library, I came across this book:

 

Contained within it is a poem titled "All My Relations" by Mark Self:

 

Within my hand, I hold my brother, father,

        grandfather, sister, mother, and grandmother.

Within my hand I hold the true spirit of giving.

Within my hand, I hold knowledge of past and future.

Within my hand I hold the selflessness of sacrifice.

Within my hand I hold the hopes and prayers of life.

Within my hand I hold all my relations.

Within my hand is Tobacco.

 

I envy the rich heritage and ancestry that natives hold deeply through something as "ordinary" as Tobacco. In our modern society, we rarely pause to consider all those who came before us and how we are interconnected through the "things" from our lives. How often do you stand and wonder who has stood there before you? How old is the land on which you live? Who was there before you? What story did their lives tell, and what does that mean for your life?

 

The house we are remodeling belonged to my great grandmother. My grandfather helped build the kitchen as an add-on before I was born. She lived there most of my young life until she passed away while I was a freshman in college. My parents and brother and I moved in after her passing, and it always felt both improper and an honor to be living there. After I got married and moved out, my parents did not do a very good job taking care of the place. Years later, after both my grandmother and grandfather passed away, my parents moved into their house, leaving the other house empty and abandoned. Now, as we work to remodel it, I feel a sense of connection and honor, both to my great grandmother for the honor of living in her home and to my grandfather for doing the work to make a home for my family. To many people, it's just a house. But to me, there are roots, there is connection.

 

Here is my poem for today:

 

THE MATTER OF MEMORY

 

Life's end is close

A shoulder bump with the universe

Breath's end as quick as a dream

Both remembered and forgotten

The afterthought pain is real, though

Lingering like blossoms and sunburn

Brought on by too much familiar sound, scent, memory

We share atoms with both

The living and the dead

Our molecules intertwined, divined

Locked together through time

Agony of separation deludes

While balm of connectedness eludes

The matter of memory.

[WolfDreamer]

Just for fun:

 

 

[WolfDreamer]

Update:

• 0415 wakeup
• said the Lord's Prayer, as well as a more personal prayer of gratitude for my blessings and for God's love and provision for me and my family
• read the daily verse devotional on YouVersion
• listened to the daily guided contemplative prayer using the PAYG app
• two rounds of WHM breathing: 2:08, 1:50. I would have done a third round, but I kind of started seizing during the second one just before the inhale hold; I was fine, but I didn't want to overdo it with a third round.
• cold shower (2 minutes warm, 3 minutes cold)
• took the dogs outside while barefoot and shirtless; stood for a few minutes, feeling the earth beneath my feet, soft and wet from recent spring rain
• completed 30 burpee-squat-presses (10 in the morning, 10 in the afternoon, 10 in the evening)

 

Today, I read a powerfully disturbing poem by Etheridge Knight titled "The Bones of My Father":

 

1

There are no dry bones

here in this valley. The skull

of my father grins

at the Mississippi moon

from the bottom

of the Tallahatchie,

the bones of my father

are buried in the mud

of these creeks and brooks that twist

and flow their secrets to the sea.

but the wind sings to me

here the sun speaks to me

of the dry bones of my father.

 

      2

There are no dry bones

in the northern valleys, in the Harlem alleys

young / black / men with knees bent

nod on the stoops of the tenements

and dream

of the dry bones of my father.

 

And young white longhairs who flee

their homes, and bend their minds

and sing their songs of brotherhood

and no more wars are searching for

my father’s bones.

 

      3

There are no dry bones here.

We hide from the sun.

No more do we take the long straight strides.

Our steps have been shaped by the cages

that kept us. We glide sideways

like crabs across the sand.

We perch on green lilies, we search

beneath white rocks...

THERE ARE NO DRY BONES HERE

 

The skull of my father

grins at the Mississippi moon

from the bottom

of the Tallahatchie.

 

Etheridge Knight was a fascinating man, and one of the most talented black poets. You can learn more about him here.

 

 

And my own poem is titled "The Old Gods":

 

THE OLD GODS

 

There is a war that involves us all

(the blood of the slain stains our hands)

between the old gods

and the younger gods of our new age.

The young stand mechanized and engineered

imposing, intrusive, invasive,

in stark contrast to the old gods,

Their evident victories won with might and force and progress

Their allies are innovation, novelty, immediacy.

But the old gods are patient.

Their victories are won with persistence and restraint

with the respirations of time.

Allied by a deep forbearance built on the shoulders 

and within the roots of the ancients before them,

they sense the impermanence of man’s progress

and foresee a return to the old ways.

[WolfDreamer]

Update:

• 0415 wakeup
• said the Lord's Prayer, as well as a more personal prayer of gratitude for my blessings and for God's love and provision for me and my family
• read the daily verse devotional on YouVersion
• practiced power breathing (3 seconds inhale, 6 seconds hold, 6 seconds exhale, repeat) for 7 minutes
• meditated in silence for 6 minutes
• one round of WHM breathing (2 minute hold)
• cold shower (2 minutes warm, 3 minutes cold)
• took the dogs outside while barefoot and shirtless; stood for a few minutes, feeling the earth beneath my feet, soft and wet from recent spring rain
• completed 20 burpee-squat-presses (10 in the morning and 10 in the afternoon)

For today's poem, I watched this video of the poem "Desiderata" by Max Ehrmann.

 

 

And for my own poem, this is called "Snow in April":

 

SNOW IN APRIL

 

“Cold spell”

Such an intriguing choice of words

as if the cold has somehow bewitched us

frozen us in place and chilled our emotions and thoughts.

We are wrapped in the mystery

of snow in April

as we are asphyxiated by our own acquittals

but not exonerated by our excuses.

Snow in April is a rare blessing

and demands to be honored as such.

[Teros]

On 5/2/2021 at 7:35 PM, Tanktimus the Encourager said:

You make poetry sound so much better than I have often perceived it. 

Same.  I rarely feel anything when I read poetry.  I think that I want it to always be more sing-songy.

 

 

Sorry to hear about what happened.  That young is always horrible.

[WolfDreamer]

Update:

• 0415 wakeup
• said the Lord's Prayer, as well as a more personal prayer of gratitude
• read the daily verse devotional on YouVersion
• listened to the daily guided contemplative prayer using the Pray As You Go app
• practiced harmony breathing (3 seconds inhale, 9 seconds hold, 6 seconds exhale, 3 seconds hold, repeat) for 7 minutes using the Prana Breath app
• cold shower (1 minute warm, 3 minutes cold)
• took the dogs outside while barefoot and shirtless; stood , feeling the cold wet earth beneath my feet
• completed 30 burpee-squat-presses (10 in the morning, 10 in the afternoon, 10 in the evening)

Today's poem is another deeply disturbing poem that uses the myth of Saturn to illustrate the devastating impact that a father's choices can have on his children. This one was a real kick in the gut as it triggered some familiar feelings I had towards my stepfather who tried to (often aggressively) instill in me his definition of what it means to be a man:

 

Saturn 

Sharon Olds

He lay on the couch night after night,
mouth open, the darkness of the room
filling his mouth, and no one knew
my father was eating his children. He seemed to
rest so quietly, vast body
inert on the sofa, big hand
fallen away from the glass.
What could be more passive than a man
passed out every night – and yet as he lay
on his back, snoring, our lives slowly
disappeared down the hole of his life.
My brother’s arm went in up to the shoulder
and he bit it off, and sucked at the wound
as one sucks at the sockets of lobster. He took
my brother’s head between his lips
and snapped it like a cherry off the stem. You would have seen
only a large, handsome man
heavily sleeping, unconscious. And yet
somewhere in his head his soil-colored eyes
were open, the circles of the whites glittering
as he crunched on the torso of his child between his jaws,
crushed the bones like the soft shells of crabs
and the delicacies of the genitals
rolled back along his tongue. In the nerves of his gums and
bowels he knew what he was doing and he could not
stop himself, like orgasm, his
boy’s feet crackling like two raw fish
between his teeth. This is what he wanted,
to take that life into his mouth
and show what a man could do – show his son
what a man’s life was.

 

And for my own poem, I call this one "I AM":

 

I AM

 

I AM thoroughly pollinated

by whirligigs and wild ashes

my breath the aroma of wet earth and petrichor

my sweat April raindrops on poplar petals

 

I AM thoughtfully propagated

by windsweep and wild willows

my voice the whispers of desert sands and Sonoran sunsets

my skin the passing dust over aster leaves

 

I AM thereagain penetrated

by wisdom and wild waters

my tears flood season that brings torrents

my eyes the color of dusklight over spruced mountaintops

 

I AM breath, sweat, voice, skin, tears, eyes.

[Stronkey Kong]

[WolfDreamer]

6 hours ago, Stronkey Kong said:

 

 

Thank you, sir.

 

Update:

• 0515 wakeup (slept in an hour because I was up an hour later than usual)
• said the Lord's Prayer, as well as a more personal prayer of gratitude
• read the daily verse devotional on YouVersion
• practiced harmony breathing (3 seconds inhale, 9 seconds hold, 6 seconds exhale, 3 seconds hold, repeat) for 7 minutes using the Prana Breath app
• no cold shower, but I washed my hair with cold water (and shampoo, of course)
• took the dogs outside while barefoot and shirtless; stood still, feeling the wet earth beneath my feet and breathed in the scent of the damp cut grass
• completed 10 burpee-squat-presses

I think for today's poem, I will share my favorite of all time, "If" by Rudyard Kipkling:

 

If you can keep your head when all about you
   Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
   But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
   Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
   And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

 

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
   If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
   And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
   Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
   And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
   And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
   And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
   To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
   Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
   Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
   If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—
   Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

 

I love the almost eternally relevant and universal life lessons in this poem. I have read it again and again and shared it with my students, and my hope is that when we start to foster (and possibly adopt) boys and I have sons of my own, I will read it to them, as well, perhaps more than once.

 

There was a really well done short film released a few years ago that was inspired by this poem:

 

 

My own poem for today is shorter (and not even as close to being as brilliant). I titled it "Overpass Passover":

 

OVERPASS PASSOVER

 

The height is just right to transport a soul

Beneath the rumble 

and the weight of each passing phase

Brief but teeming with life:

Doubts, fears, hesitations,

Anger, shame, heartbreak

Let it all passover me with a rumble

Weight pressed down and lifted up

Transferred, transformed:

Assurance, courage, resolution

Love, acceptance, heartswell

[WolfDreamer]

Update:

• 0415 wakeup
• said the Lord's Prayer, as well as a more personal prayer of gratitude
• read the daily verse devotional on YouVersion
• listened to the daily guided contemplative prayer on the Pray As You Go app
• practiced box breathing (4 seconds inhale, 4 seconds hold, 4 seconds exhale, 4 seconds hold, repeat) for 8 minutes
• no cold shower, but I washed my hair with cold water
• took the dogs outside while barefoot and shirtless; stood still, feeling the wet earth beneath my feet and breathed in the scent of the damp cut grass
• ran a 4.5 mile trail run with my buddy Rick
• completed 10 burpee-squat-presses; it was a busy day, and my back is a little sore, so I took a break from these just for today

Today's poem is "My Papa's Waltz" by Theodore Roethke. This video is from The Favorite Poem Project and includes a reading and discussion of the poem:

 

 

And my own poem is titled "Sovereign or Subject":

 

SOVEREIGN OR SUBJECT

 

Are you sovereign or subject?

As politicians escape with your empathy

And steal your sanctity

You shut one eye and pretend to be blind

Speak with confidence the lies that even you don’t believe anymore

This is the waste land Eliot wrote of

And April really is the cruelest month

Or lest we escape to the red rock shadows,

Having learned little but lost much,

To become our own origin story

Reboot

Rebuild

Reborn

Returned

Initiated into something greater than ourselves

Something ancient, ancestral, and holy

Beautiful and sanctified by struggle

[WolfDreamer]

First things first, Happy Mother's Day to the mothers out there.

 

 

Week 1, Day 1 Update:

• 0700 wakeup (I always sleep in on Sundays)
• said the Lord's Prayer, as well as a more personal prayer 
• read the daily verse devotional on YouVersion
• no cold shower (took a bath last night because I needed it), but I washed my hair with cold water
• took the dogs outside while barefoot and shirtless; stood and felt the earth beneath my feet and breathed in the morning air while listening to turkeys calling from the other side of the river
• completed 10 burpee-squat-presses

Today's poem is a shorter one but is appropriate for today. It is "The Angel that presided 'oer my birth" by William Blake:

 

The Angel that presided 'oer my birth
Said, "Little creature, form'd of Joy and Mirth,
"Go love without the help of any Thing on Earth."

My own poem, which I just wrote this morning, is simply titled "Mother's Day 2021":

 

You have been with us since our birth

We felt your lifeblood in our veins

The thrum of your heartbeat in the earth

Gave us respite from our pains

 

You set us free when the time was right

We mourned our loss but knew the truth

To trust our own deep will to fight

And embrace the end of our sacred youth

[WolfDreamer]

Week 1, Day 2 Update:

• 0415 wakeup (although reluctantly)
• said the Lord's Prayer, as well as a more personal prayer 
• read the daily verse devotional on YouVersion
• listened to the daily guided contemplative prayer using using the PAYG app
• cold shower (2 mins. warm, 3 mins. cold)
• two rounds of a breathwork exercise that I learned from Samantha Skelly: 50 "bliss breaths" (sharp inhale/exhale through the nose) followed by 50 "blow breaths" (shape inhale/exhale through mouth), then 10 "conscious breaths" (deep inhale through the nose and out through the mouth), and finish with a deep inhale and hold.
• took the dogs outside while barefoot and shirtless; stood and felt the earth beneath my feet, breathed in the cold morning air
• completed 10 burpee-squat-presses

I have been listening to American Gods by Neil Gaiman. It is my second time reading the novel, but it rings much differently now as I'm currently studying myth and following the mythopoetic movement. I enjoyed the novel the first time I read it, so I know it isn't necessary to have a knowledge of myth to enjoy it, but its meaning is definitely deepened by this knowledge. Anyway, I tell you that because today's poem is a Neil Gaiman original titled "Conjunctions":

 

Conjunctions

 

Jupiter and Venus hung like grapes in the evening sky,

frozen and untwinkling,

You could have reached and up and picked them.

 

And the trout swam.

 

Snow muffled the world, silenced the dog,

silenced the wind...

 

The man said, I can show you the trout. He was

glad of the company. 

He reached into their tiny pool, rescued a dozen, one by one, 

sorting and choosing,

dividing the sheep from the goats of them.

 

And this was the miracle of the fishes,

that they were beautiful. Even when clubbed and gutted,

insides glittering like jewels. See this? he said, the trout heart

pulsed like a ruby in his hand. The kids love this. 

He put it down, and it kept beating.

The kids, they go wild for it.

 

He said, we feed the guts to the pigs. They're pets now,

They won't be killed. See? We saw,

huge as horses they loomed on the side of the hill.

 

And we walk through the world trailing trout hearts like dreams,

wondering if they imagine rivers, quiet summer days, 

fat foolish flies that hover or sit for a moment too long.

We should set them free, our trout and our metaphors:

 

You don't have to hit me over the head with it.

This is where you get to spill your guts.

You killed in there, tonight. 

He pulled her heart out. Look, you can see it there, still beating. He said,

See this? This is the bit the kids like best. This is what they come to see.

 

Just her heart, pulsing, on and on. It was so cold that night,

and the stars were all alone.

Just them and the moon in a luminous bruise of sky.

 

And this was the miracle of the fishes.

 

 

And my own poem is inspired by my love for Neil and his writing. It is titled "I Dreamt I Met Neil Gaiman":

 

I DREAMT I MET NEIL GAIMAN

 

I dreamt I met Neil Gaiman

in a dusty antique shop downtown

He smiled and waved as soon as I came in

And wondered why I looked so down

 

He shared stories of loss and gain

He shared stories of heartache and bliss

I listened intently and felt my heart strain

to understand meanings I’d forgotten or missed

 

He spoke of places both real and imagined

as my soul begged and thirsted for more

He sang of heroes endangered and villains impassioned

of a treasure found hidden in an old discount store 

 

The a clock on the wall played the Westminster tune

and he looked wistfully down at his tea

and said, “Just because it’s fiction doesn’t mean it’s not true,”

Then he was gone, and I was alone, feeling sad but set free.

[WolfDreamer]

Week 1, Day 3 Update:

• 0415 wakeup
• said the Lord's Prayer, as well as a more personal prayer 
• read the daily verse devotional on YouVersion
• listened to the daily guided contemplative prayer using using the PAYG app
• no cold shower (took a necessary warm bath last night), but I rinsed my hair with cold water
• two rounds of a the same breathwork exercise as yesterday
• took the dogs outside while barefoot and shirtless; stood and felt the earth beneath my feet, breathed in the cold morning air and watched the fog roll from the river over the field
• completed 20 burpee-squat-presses with the cinderblock

 

Today's poem is "The Core of Masculinity" by Rumi:

 

The core of masculinity does not derive
from being male,
nor friendliness from those who console.

 

Your old grandmother says, “Maybe you shouldn’t
go to school. You look a little pale.”

 

Run when you hear that.
A father’s stern slaps are better.

 

Your bodily soul wants comforting.
The severe father wants spiritual clarity.

 

He scolds but eventually
leads you into the open.

 

Pray for a tough instructor
to hear and act and stay within you.

 

We have been busy accumulating solace.
Make us afraid of how we were.

 

I honor those who try
to rid themselves of any lying,
who empty the self
and have only clear being there.

 

 

And for my own poem, I played around with using structure and wrote a villanelle about not being able to get my trip to the Mojave desert out of my mind. I titled it "Mojave Memories":

 

MOJAVE MEMORIES

 

A piece of me stayed with those mountains of red

My heart holds fast to those desert sands

Mojave memories weave and enduring thread

 

Like a fever that leads me through journeys ahead

My soul holds fast to the shade of lowlands

A piece of me stayed with those mountains of red

 

Red on the sands as if the earth itself bled

My veins hold fast to what my heart understands

Mojave memories weave an enduring thread

 

The dust with the wind brings songs of bloodshed

My flesh holds fast to what memory demands

A piece of me stayed with those mountains of red

 

Old tales forgotten now memory imbed

My head holds fast to the life in my hands

Mojave memories weave an enduring thread

 

You brought me here where life demands

Our hearts held fast where love withstands

A piece of me stayed with those mountains of red

Mojave memories weave an enduring thread

 

I combined this poem with some pictures I took from my trip to California last year:

 

https://www.instagram.com/p/COopfnmhNTc/ 

[WolfDreamer]

Week 1, Day 4 Update:

• 0415 wakeup
• said the Lord's Prayer, as well as a more personal prayer 
• read the daily verse devotional on YouVersion
• took a cold shower (2 mins. warm, 3 mins. cold)
• two rounds of a the same breathwork exercise as the past two days but incorporated arm movements during the bliss breaths and the blow breaths
• took the dogs outside while barefoot and shirtless; stood and felt the earth beneath my feet, breathed in the cold morning air
• completed 20 burpee-squat-presses with the cinderblock

Today's poem is "The Gift" by Li-Young Lee:

 

 

And my own poem is titled "Moved to Tears by the Evening Sky":

 

Yesterday,

I was moved to tears by the evening sky

while walking across a Kroger parking lot

enraptured by the stark, natural hues

contrasted against but not impeded by

the golden arches of a McDonald’s sign

The tears embarrassed me at first,

but regardless I couldn’t stop them

So I laughed

and I wept

and I laughed some more,

mindful but no longer embarrassed

contrasted but not impeded by

the confused glances and concerned stares

[Aquarii]

I am so sorry to hear about your loss. 

 

I love the approach you are taking for this challenge. Poetry is such a beautiful form of expression. I will be following along!

[WolfDreamer]

19 hours ago, Aquarii said:

I am so sorry to hear about your loss. 

 

I love the approach you are taking for this challenge. Poetry is such a beautiful form of expression. I will be following along!

 

Thank you @Aquarii. It is always a pleasure to see you.

 

 Week 1, Day 5 Update:

• 0500 wakeup; I needed a little extra sleep
• said the Lord's Prayer, as well as a more personal prayer 
• read the daily verse devotional on YouVersion
• took a cold shower (2 mins. warm, 3 mins. cold)
• one round of the same breathwork exercise as the past three days; I really like it because it's simple and leaves me feeling energized and tingly.
• took the dogs outside while barefoot and shirtless; stood and felt the earth beneath my feet, breathed in the frosty and foggy morning air
• no burpees today; my back was hurting again, so I think it may need a break. I am also considering not using the cinderblock for a while (or at least not every time)

Today's poem is from Rainer Maria Rilke, and it is titled "I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone":

 

 

And my own poem is titled "Seven Stories He Told Us":

 

SEVEN STORIES HE TOLD US

 

“You’ll break my heart if you fall,”

he said

Seven stories he told us

along the riverbank by the light

of a dying campfire

“But my arms are tired,

and my fingers are weak,”

he said

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.”

Shadow actors played many parts

inciting and instigating the tale

“You can,”

he said

“because you’re stronger now

than you were before.”

Before the tragedy

before the beginning ended

we knew the end would be the beginning

“I don’t want to die,”

he said

his voice a whimper carried by the wind

the fire somehow finding new life

“You already have,”

he said

“But you’ve been given new life.”

Our eyes lit by spirit flames

we listened, hearts lost and found

broken and mended

from seven stories he told us

[Sciread77]

Oh. Yes. Following. 
 

You have to comment when the challenge flips lol.