Leisure >> Poetry and Prose

Searching For My Soul in the Bookstore

By: Maureen McDole

I scour the bookshelves for myself.

Who shall I be today-

Georgia ‘O Keefe?

Ah, to be alone

with my art for days on end.

I could be Allen Ginsberg-

no, his life was to large-

he had too many friends.

How about Thomas Merton,

or Black Elk?

I can contemplate life

all day, or be like Frida Kahlo

and paint my suffering away.

I scour the bookshelves for myself.

I've done this since I was a child.

I looked to Laura Ingells Wilder and Anne of Avonlea.

They were celebrated,

they felt wild.

I felt if I could be found in them

then that would mean a part of me was worth something, too.

That would give me worth, some value.

I scour the bookshelves for myself.

Just a glimmer, a hint, of who I am.

Surely I can catch a glimpse

in this book I hold within my hand.

I turn to page 323.

Nope, I am not found resting there.

I begin to doubt a piece of me

could be found in my own biography.

I scour the bookshelves for myself.

Then one day I realize,

that I will not be found within these books.

I am untouchable, undefinable

and that is going to have to be okay.

So I slowly, carefully, with much trepidation,

I put the books on Queen Elizabeth I

and Jane Austen away.

_____________________________________________________________________

Kindred Spirits

A carpet of luscious, green fields filled with beautiful oak trees has one weeping willow tree among them. The oak trees really do not pay attention to the weeping willow tree, even though it is a part of their atmosphere. willow tree in the sun.jpg

At first glance the magnitudes of the tall, picturesque oaks appear to be stronger.

This perception is most probably due to the mere fact that there are more of them? If one has a spirited eye, mind and heart a completely different, unique picture is seen.

Into the carpeted fields of oak trees flock numerous birds, all of similar features being drawn to the magnetism of the oaks. These birds are drawn to the powerful oaks because they appear to have more to offer. One odd bird, one might say, is drawn to the weeping willow tree because through its spirited eyes this is not true. The odd bird likes the weeping willow tree because like the willow, the bird has gone un-noticed for most of its life. The odd bird is glad to know another exists, not exactly like herself, but similar and her faith is renewed by one tree.

The big oaks continue to get bigger reaching for the top all the while making their trunks hollower. The oak trees have everything a bird could want, with strong, long branches filled with leaves while the weeping willow has apparent brittle branches that are much thinner. But, the weeping willow is content with its statue and is drawn back to the earth from which it came. This is why the branches go downward instead of upward. The willow realizes the foundation is where it all began and is where life should be sustained. The rich, nutrient soil makes the weeping willow more dense and of substance; giving life to the willow with no expectations.

From the beginning, the weeping willow tree wanted to live its life this way; giving with no expectations. The willow knew the answers were inside not on the outside.

For this reason in the green, carpeted fields the willow stands alone in wisdom.

The willow is not as alone as once thought because the odd bird understands this perception. In kindred spirit, life can be experienced together, not alone, with love, compassion, understanding, loyalty, and grace. Each spirit giving what is missing in the other with mutual understanding of what life is about in "their" perception, even if it is the minority.

Masses is not what is needed to make another feel loved and wanted, it only takes one, like the weeping willow tree for the odd bird.

By Charlotte Palmer

You caught my attention as a curly-leafed showy shrub
in the yard of an old friend's mother.

She gifted me with you as a way to sustain you
since there was no room for this off-shoot
of the thriving parent bush she had long cultivated.

I brought you home wrapped in damp newspaper
determined to give you a location where you, too,
could thrive.

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice -
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!" each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.

It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do -
determined to save
the only life that you could save.