Author: Aunt Author

Website Updates and Today’s Happenings

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Currently Watching: The Glades on Disney+

Currently Reading: The Hotel Nantucket by Elin Hilderbrand

Dinner: French Lentil Salad

Late Night Snack: Hudsonville’s Peanut Butter Ice Cream

Drink of Choice: Unsweetened Iced Tea – brewed from Lipton’s Black Tea bags.

Today’s Song of Choice: The Haunted Windchimes, Darling Love

Current Mood: Content

You may have noticed I updated my website a bit. I changed the theme around, and decided to share not just reviews from my insatiable reading habit, but also my own poems and short stories. I opted to open up my bookish site to a little more personal reflections from me, as I do my best growing as a person when I am writing.

And if you noticed that I am watching The Glades, as mentioned above, don’t worry I know they canceled this show on a terrible cliffhanger. I am extremely disappointed by that, but I still love the show. “Jim” and “Cassie” were cast perfectly in their roles and I am saddened that I haven’t seen more of either of them in other major roles. Meanwhile though, I am on my second run-through of this show, and getting closer to the cliffhanger ending by the moment. I’m going to be pretty sad when I finally hit that last episode. Anyone else disappointed in the ending of The Glades?

We have been discussing the new regulations of what I’ll call ‘mixed beef,’ on top of the many food-borne illnesses that have popped out lately. It’s enough to make you not trust what you’re getting anymore. The conversation has been ongoing, and I’ll admit, I opted for a plant-based meal for dinner because I couldn’t stomach it any longer. On a side note, the French Lentil Salad was pretty good. Enough that I would actually eat it again – and well, dessert was definitely on point tonight as well.

I was introduced to the sounds of The Haunted Windchimes by my nephew when he shared the song by them called, Out with the crow. I’ll admit I was hooked. I instantly looked up the rest of the album and I am madly in love with their voices. I truly don’t know why they aren’t more well known. They have such a unique vibe.

First Love, a poem.

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You crossed my mind today
as first loves do
I thought of how you looked at me
and how you took me out on
the back of your four-wheeler
I wasn’t scared enough,
you thought.
I wasn’t scared enough.
“A girl like me doesn’t date a guy like you.”
Maybe it is true.
Maybe some girls don’t date you.
But that doesn’t stop us from falling in love
with your ten dollar cologne,
the necklace you wore
the one you gifted me
the way you looked out for me,
the girl who didn’t date guys like you.
I remember when your latest conquest
approached me, surprised me by saying
you told her I was your best friend.
It’s funny that you never told me that.
It’s funny that we were connected and
yet so disconnected
Love that transcends souls
a love that sneaks in against all odds,
all warnings. Or was all of it just
in my head, the result of a vivid imagination
as dreamers dream, and lovers unite,
platonic love imagined as something more?

This is me, for better or worse, a poem.

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I’ve adapted to
cities over time, but now
I prefer the rural sky.

I’ve danced on tables
and in clubs and
drank more than my share
of Mai Tai’s.

Smoked cigars and
cigarettes and partied
all the nights.
I swam with sharks
and flew in planes
I’m shocked
I was once brave.

Now I sit inside my room
frightened of my brain.

Once there was a woman
who felt invincible
then I lost a sibling
and that woman said
“No more.”

Out of Thin Air, a poem.

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Creating something from nothing
is uniquely satisfying in that
you utilized your brain, or your hands,
to create something of your own.
Something unique to you, something
un-recreatable by another because
your hands,
your finger prints,
your mind,
is special
in the way that you brought
it to life. Through words, art, whatever
you choose to create is a part of you
whether you mean to share your soul
with another, you have done so
with complete trust and faith
that they will see the best in you.

Stormy Days, a poem.

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Introduction

There’s something cozy about when the skies turn gray and the darkness closes in. The midnight hour comes at noon and we watch as the sky lights up with brilliant white streaks.

It isn’t so much the weather, as it is the warmth of feeling safe and protected while water pours from the sky raging in Mother Nature’s lair knowing I have the provisions to weather this storm – food, water, shelter, warmth, electricity, company.

Above all the company reminds me I am safe, and even if safety is threatened, I am happy, because I am not alone. We will go through this storm together. We will feel the feels together. We will ride it out together.

Living alone.
I found myself shuddering
in great fear beneath my stairwell,
trembling with the might of a woman
who feared harm to self
or animals, all while listening to the trees
falling down around my home. The wind
carrying it’s own burden along the path
of tornado alley. Choking on my heart
I barricaded the stairwell - locking dogs, cats,
myself within a the closet under the stairs
while contemplating why I bought a house
without a basement in the midwest.

Today, the storm rages within
rather than without - hail pelts
my heart bruising my arteries
as I watch the cloudy sky for 
signs of danger, seeing none,
leaving nothing to chance. 

In the next room, I have
something different. Something necessary.
I have people. People who care. 
People who do not feel the storm
as it wars both within the walls,
and without. People who look
at the sky, and see clouds, not 
the violence hidden within.

People. 

People who remember the storm
is just a storm and not just an ending to 
your story.

Final Thoughts

When I was younger I liked thunderstorms. The invincibility of youth kept me safe and braver than I should ever have been. Somewhere along the way I grew up and learned we are not invincible. People die. People die from horrible things. Our loved ones die. Now I look at the storm differently, as a wild, uncontrollable thing that threatens our safety. What once felt peaceful, now becomes terrifying. While having company around helps, the fear is real. While peace is hard to find in the thunder these days, I do have people. People who don’t feel the fear I do, and that helps. Sometimes that helps a lot, other times I sit in my stairwell and tremble.

Therapy Days, a poem.

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it is difficult to remember
what to tell the counselor.

what story to share –

what day was had –

when you open your mouth
and find the words
you babble like a child
forgotten are the good times
embraced are days of dark
the therapist gives you a technique
that you nod encouragingly over,
in agreement with the plan
two hours later you have forgotten
what you were supposed to learn
and are wondering how
you got it all so wrong

it is difficult to remember
what to tell the counselor.

sometimes the words roll off the tongue
sometimes we blunder through a session
sometimes were scared to tell the truth

we don’t like to hear
something may be wrong with us
we don’t like to know
we are just like everyone else
we don’t like to see
our life’s reflection
shining back at us
in someone else’s eyes

it is difficult to remember
what to tell the counselor.

But it’s harder to live life alone.

Sunday Vibes, a poem.

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Spending a moment outdoors,
to feel the sun on my skin,
breathing the fresh dew in.
Natures humidifier.

Absorbing Cary Grant movies
on Turner Classic like
the cleaning rag soaks up suds.
Meanwhile – I am avoiding my chores.

I sit in my bed, crosslegged,
blanket in my lap,
I muse.
I read.
I write.
Sometimes I scroll.

I think.

My body releases this week’s tension
leaving the sun to heal the skin
and my bed to heal the rest.
The bathroom may remain dirty,
but my soul –
it has been cleansed.

Moody Days, a poem.

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Buried behind the clouds,
as I am buried in blankets,
humidity runs high and the daylight
stays muted even with the rising of the sun.
These are the moody days.
When the Earth hasn’t figured out
if it is waking up today. A burst
of depression covers the fields,
the forests, the lakes, and I emerge
from my bed as if in dream state
painted in blues and grays matching
the picture outside of my window.
These are the moody days.
These are the soft days.

These are the days we contemplate
former lovers, past indiscretions, soak
in ceramic tubs filled with bubbles, painting
our fingernails pink to find a spark.
The Saturday mornings that never end.
These are the moody days.
The days of lost loves, memories,
bagels with cream cheese, and
forgotten dreams.

Evening View, a poem.

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The Setting:

The soft whirr of a fan blasts
a cool breeze my way.
I let the mind wander
and I embrace the noise
found within. Buzzing with
anticipatory joy for tomorrow,
plans of making art
after a brief hiatus
plans of healing from an
unwanted virus, plans even of
obligatory chores yet to be done.
I can still taste the red
popsicle that cleansed my palate
I can still feel the warmth of
the floor lamps golden hue.
The mind paints a song
brilliant with color, and I
hold the brush in my hand.