…and world.

Image of shoulders holding is by AnabelBugarin from Pixabay, so join me in gratitude for its use here.

As a person who plays at seeing poetry in everything, sometimes I just have to give it over to the poetry of practicality, assess the chaos, figure out some small channel where the flow is in my control, and listen to music while generating intent to make everything easy and able to be filled with grace.

This morning, it wasn’t the world, it was my own reality resting hard on my shoulders. And then I opened an email from The Dip, saw these musicians’ faces…and like a promise fulfilled, my day lightened up and things felt better. Of…

There is more to ‘body language’ than anyone suspected.

Thanks for the ‘inner/outer’ image, dear 愚木混株 Cdd20 and Pixabay.

While you control
your cerebrum
rogue body parts
poke your eardrum:

“Look how I make
my curlicue,”
said lock of hair
to purlicue.

“You irritate,”
said vagus nerve,
then jumped cables
to breastbone’s curve.

The os coxae
must stay hearty.
“Walk this way, bones,
time to party!”

Said the penis
to patella,
“Such good cover
…like umbrella!

“Please, no ulnas!
Do not take risks
when lifting pounds,”
say spine and discs.

Said left hallux
to other fumb,
“We’ve shoes for dress —
let’s pity thumb!”

Body parts in
Compliments and

NOTE: Do you require a little gray-haired anatomy…

This poem improves my life slightly more than my own garden does today.

…as in the work of writing, drafting, working with ‘the words’

Look at this free image by Wout van Turenhout from Pixabay! It’s so great for this poem. Thank you, Wout!


There are limits
there are Eulers
there are Einsteins
words are rulers.

There are meanings
there are Platos
there are Voltaires
rights are leanings.

There are degrees
there are measures
there are volumes
books are trustees.

There are quotas
there go numbers
here come letters
our iotas.


There are limits
say the Eulers.
What says Einstein?
Laws are rulers.

There are meanings
say the Nietzsches.
What says Voltaire?
Life is peachy.

There are degrees
say the Measures.
What packs Volumes?
Books are pleasures.

There are quotas say the Numbers…

They Dance. They Do!

Look at this image by a person who ‘gets’ it: Please Don’t sell My Artwork AS IS. From Pixabay, thank you.

These two words dance
in mighty light
atop clutter
ignoring blight.

One is fulsome
the other — pure
and both can lead
the blessed tour.

A pull, a push
their even flow
meet resistance
to feel, to know.

High arcana
their sounds employ
two smaller sounds
of “un” and “oy.”

Image by Jeffraines from Pixabay. Thank you, jeffraines and Pixabay.

Who names flowers?
Who scripts such terms?
Who usurps what
nature confirms?

As a man sees
so he defines
then leaves unseen
to mere opines.

While walking out
in shaded glen
demanded pen.

An unscripted
hyacinth plume.
Carl Linnaeus
described its bloom.

NOTE: The bluebell flower, which grows from a bulb, was given new life when planted as Hyacinthoides non-scripta in a work written by Carl Linnaeus titled Species Planarium. Published in 1753, the little flower rested on its laurels-pages in imagined ancient woodlands where it is recognized to have created a gorgeous understorey — a carpeting of blue-violet-blue-creampollen-violet…

…a power play.

Thanks to Pixabay for this image by PDPhotos.

The green of love
has turned to red
on chlorophyll
this berry fed.

The white of love
was built of pulp
to liquefy
to sip then gulp.

The yellow love
moved into seed…
a failed supply
of want and need.

The berry’s lust
rejected straw
but longed to suck
George Bernard Shaw.

NOTE: This poem was written in honor of the short play, “Why She Would Not: A Little Comedy,” by George Bernard Shaw (1950). It is the last play written by this author before he died at the age of 94, and it is about a wealthy woman rescued…

Image by Hanne Hasu — thank you, Hanne — and it’s from Pixabay.

Pour a cup of
hair-hearty tea.
Criticize life —
then sit with me.

Toy potatoes.
Suess’s zoo.
Who’re the say-sos?
Reds? A few blue?

“I don’t like it!”
“Well, then. I do!”
Where is the split?
Who has the clue?

The criticals
of chilliness?
Hot syllables
of silliness!

NOTE: The word “quirkamente” seemed so odd, yet so relevant. I took it on a tour of Google Translate and found that in Italian it means “quirkly.” No one needs to know anything else about me, this word, this poem, or the news. Let’s give everything a Big Rest and see what changes for the better.

You know where the roots are, right? Image: Mary Holden.

cone is a fruit
seed is a spark
root is a boot
stem is a mark

ring is a sign
buds are a spray
wood is a line
twig is a play

pulp is a mush
knot is a time
pith is a blush
limb is a climb

leaf is a lung
slip is a youth
bark is a tongue
tree is a truth

NOTE: I know others have posted this, but thank you to Dame Judi Dench, and my friend Russ Monson, Ph.D. for their admiration of and work with trees. Go hug one today. They do not have COVID-19!

Mary Holden

A constantly evaporating editor and writer. Believer in medium since 2013 when they made me wait for an invitation!

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