“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” - Mary Oliver Only a little time left, to walk alone in this precious and wild world; I plan to shape and walk my own wild and precious path.
Alone – Credo
Author: joanvinallcox
Joan Vinall-Cox, Ph.D. is a lifelong learner, retired communications professor, rabid reader and poet who has taught in both the college and university systems.
Her Ph.D., in 2004 was an Autoethnographic Arts-Based Narrative Inquiry focused on moving from technophobia to technophilia.
She is a widow from a happy marriage and a mother to a strong and kind daughter.
Her interests include Centering Prayer, Multiple Intelligences, Attention Deficit Disorder and its connection to creativity, Jung, Campbell’s Monomyth, and Arts-Based Narrative Inquiry
Shared Poem – Ros Barber
I’m sharing a poem by the poet, Ros Barber, with what I think is good advice, especially in midsummer.
Impermanence
A silent cyclist speeding by;
a sudden noise in an empty house:
impermanence
Alone
I am getting ready to be alone with just your fingerprints
Vigil Questions
Who suffers more, the watcher or the watched? The leaver or the left?
Sorrow Creeps
Sorrow creeps
up the stairs; banisters help.
Tomorrows are collapsing.
Dreamspace
An Excerpt
O send me disorienting dreams, I pray, and save me from a rational life.
Cognitive Dissonance
The shadow of a bird flew across the sunlit pillar to the noise of destruction: Cognitive dissonance.
Lost Password
I’ve lost the password to what used to be my life.
The air is strange and I’m losing my sense of balance.
I search through remnants scattered in the home I sold,
Wondering what to keep, or sell, or trash.
In the coffeeshop, the chatter is of family discord:
Recent losses, expected deaths, and mangled hopes
Fall like tears from the balcony, splashing on me,
Where I sit, trying to create a new password.
The Arms Merchants
The arms merchants recruit the awful hungers
of the power mongers and trim their synapses
with greed
Then power mongers hypnotically whisper
to the shamed and lonely ones filled with rigid angers
and find the hungriest to bombast
“the Others are thieves who want
what’s ours. Stop them. Guns!
guns, guns, guns.”
Making ghosts of our children.
