A Walk Through Scotland With Friends

WALKING THROUGH SCOTLAND

In the company of friends

And the rhythm of sticks

I spy a blue fly on green fern

Sheep grazing in the distance

Tufts of wool dangling from fences

Bluebells line the path with yellow anenome,

Purple geranium, wild rose, ferns

and blossoms of which I have no name

Rain falls from heavy clouds

White water spills over the faces of dark rocks

Into bubbling pools

The land begs verse

We end each day foot weary but filled

Seeing more by seeing less

We end each day bedding at inns in quaint towns

Savoring warm bowls of soup

And cups of hot tea

Letters to the Universe

old-letters-2238537_1920I was not an English major.  My heartfelt essays in high school often came back redlined, oblivious of the content.  My love of reading and journaling came from the only English teacher I liked, Mrs. Geselschap from my junior year.  She let us read what we wanted and often suggested great books.  The journaling habit continues to this day.

I could always write decently when required, yet it was not something I chose to do, especially majoring in the natural sciences.  So I’ve wondered as I have become a writer in my 60’s, with words oozing from my core, where did the ability to express myself in poetry and prose come from?

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