Heat Wave

Today the sun beats on us mercilessly; we weren't prepared for this. Schools close early, humans line up with jugs of water and gallons of milk. We close off the windows, hide from the light.

But the heat finds its way in. It settles over us like dirt sprinkled over seed. It tells us "you do not always get to be comfortable. I'm intense and sometimes I hurt."

and we bow because we want it to go away. But even the roar of the fans cannot drown out the truth of living. Sometimes the things we long for are the things that make us suffer.

**********

If someone tells you that they don't know how they will find their way home, tell them this. Tell them that once a mountain stood as a tiny speck of rock and it longed for the sky the way a heart longs to be seen.

Tell them that the only path to freedom is carved through the vessels of your own suffering spirit.

Tell them that the ones that lived in glory are only ghosts. Tell them the ones that always win will have the most to lose.

Tell them that there are stories of men who can walk through walls and put their hands through rocks
and how is this done when point A gets you to point B
and yesterday happened on friday
and tomorrow I am going to the market.

Tell them the tree that falls in forest may have never been real

and the hot, burning sun

is only a star.

Weed Trees

The weeds that pop up in our yard, persistent little seedlings.
We call them “weed trees” because that’s what they become.
Trees.
And I sat under one today, my back pressed against it’s flesh,
relishing in its protection from the heat.
It impressed me, this weed tree,
how tall it had become,
the strength of its sturdy trunk.
We spend hours digging weed roots out of our yards,
wrestling with strong root systems.
But some manage to avoid plucking fingers,
and make their way into air,
forming arches, towers, protection
and homes to small creatures.
So much energy is spent to clear the path for the lavender,
the pansies, the rosemary, the lilacs.
But looking up at the sky, there are the weed trees
that look down upon us,
like elders,
telling the story of trying to make their way
through the adversity of
being unwanted.

-Summer Nicklasson

In connecting...

I'm breathing today,
actual breaths in my actual lungs which are actually rising and falling
and this is my own miracle.
There are moments in life when the poignancy of this
sits on your lap with your face between her hands
and the everlasting truth of this ever present moment
is suddenly the shiniest star you've ever seen.

We walk through this world with our heart lights
shining like beacons, ready to love.

The way we touch each other,
with soft skins and smiling faces,
with caretaking and desire
habits and moments taken for granted,
these are the gems of our lives.
My heart, pressed against your heart,
listening and being heard,
pausing for a moment in the completeness of our shared space.

We are powered by connection.
but vulnerable in our humanness,
possessing the knowledge that all warm hearts will one day grow cold
and that love with not always be felt in arms embrace.
Our loving hearts become sad, full of grief and sorrow.
We long for beating hearts.

Outside, the trees continue to whisper,
the blooms open and they close
the tide ebbs and flows
night falls and day rises.

And our hearts, in those poignant moments,
open up to the beating heart of the Earth,
and her continual reminder

that love never dies.

New things (spring)

There are new things.

The Earth rotates, back into the
sweet spot of sun.

Winter slowly creeps away, bowing to the 

pink candy blossoms of spring

and me,

this heart, 

bursting with unnamed creativity

of what the new, warmer season will bring.

And see there are new things, 

fresh and unformed

that want to be shaken

out of my body, my fingers,

free to experience their own heartbeat

(ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump)

until it matches my own
and the new things become muscle memory

and habit

and good fortune.

Stronger we are, finding one another,
creating together as no single man could do on his own.
Beating
(ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump)
to the pulse of the Earth,
to the rhythm of collective consciousness
and you, and me, become the
PERFECT POSSIBILITY.

Being God (attempted poem a day 4)

"Take my hand
And lead me to salvation
Take my love
For love is everlasting
And remember
The truth that once was spoken:
To love another person is to see the face of god"
[finale, Les Miserable, 2012]


Being God

My path, is destiny its name?
This lot that I've been given,
my own sacrifices, my own joys.
Each man lives a life that is his own,
each carries on their shoulders their stories,
earned and carved.
The child born to poverty, 
and the child born to kings. 
Where do they connect? 
A tall, gated difference, so difficult to cross.

I've lost idealism through grief
and school shootings 
and neighborhood crime.
The ones that live the path of righteousness
are not spared, not always. There is no fairness, 
no mercy in where the ax falls down. 
We do our best, sometimes,
Or we give up, sometimes.
Either way we all meet the hand of God
the cold flesh at the end will spare none of us.

So we all are born
And we all die
And we all GET the privilege of the middle. We all get the parts
where we are NOT newly born, and we are NOT dead.
And as separate as we can feel, 
there is so much that makes us the same.
Love, I believe, deepens this knowledge.
For if love is the face of God,
then I have seen God, I have felt God,
and this touching of God, of Love, of humans connecting,
is why I do this, this living.
For without this God, this Love
I would shrivel away.

If I die tomorrow, and I hope that's not so, 
I will say that I got it.
It's not about achieving or accomplishing 
or pretending or searching.
It's about being, present, 
with a heart full of love
a heart full of God.
I acknowledge that together, united in our sameness, 
in our Love,
we are all beautiful
and worthy
and God.

Ready to swim. (poem a day)

Happy New Year!
I am attempting to write a poem each day. It doesn't have an end date, not now anyway. Being creative is a muscle, one to be flexed continuously, and I am the happiest when I'm creative. So here's the start and a very poetic, reflective and creative new year! - Summer
...............................................................

ready to swim

I've been obsessed with these hip New York scenes
youthful creativity, reckless machines
I sit here in Denver, completely aware
of a scene I'm not part of
of a place I'm not there

Time's had it's way with me
that sinister bitch
To love it or hate it, I never know which.

But my youth, it has not just come and then gone
Like the haunting melody of an older, loved song
My fires burn deep, just sometimes hard to access
Responsibilities do their job to repress.

How we identify
the who what and why
I am a woman and wife
A nurse and a lover
A homekeeper, billpayer
I am a mother.
But this who what and why
it is not all I
there is more to be seen and more to be formed
a nebuli existing, a perfect storm.
I quietly exist, at times, sometimes not
Sometimes my voice needs to be heard, a gunshot!
We're here, then we're not, and then we quietly combine
And we twinkle and dance in the massive starshine

And see there's not much to say here, we all meet our match
But sometimes the words are the much needed patch
to a heart that feels broken, sometimes, not always
to feet that want to find their way out of the crawlways
to lovers that find they can no longer connect
a proclamation from qualities you want to correct.
These words that you see, that you comprehend
One day they'll mean nothing, when it's our end.
Or maybe the words will become so much more
a deep kind of listening without any score
United in knowing that we're part of much more

And so here we are, you read and I wrote
And the two needed each other
To put meaning to note.
We need each other, though mysteriously so
my heart extends outward,
wanting to grow.
It wants, oh it wants
to grow and know more
though I can be a bit scared
at each new closed door.

I'd like to do this together,
you. me. him
We are all made of water
and I'm ready to swim.

Joining

We spin in a circle,
Each day full of tasks, responsibilities, trials and tribulations.
We sleep. We eat. We do. We rise.

I sneak up in the wee morning hours to obtain a few unsolicited moments
where the morning light has not yet risen
and the streets are quiet with possibility.
Eventually I am joined by my three year old
who runs to my place on the couch and where
I hold her close for a minute, 5, 20,
however much time we wish for this connection.
This moment, however long, is my soul food
and as I hold her I am blissfully unaware (for at least a fleeting moment)
of the rising sun and the ticking clock and the things that I must do and say and be
and it is just us, her and I, suspended in time,
connecting, as humans do,
as humans long for.

slanted light

When the Sun hits the Earth, 

slanted light,

the world is sacred.

Bathed in silky, honey gold,

dew drops glistening, 

the morning songs of birds,

it is here that my heart feels whole.

Before the children wake up, and 

the work duties begin. Before the 

cleaning and the doing and the getting 

to places on time, it is here, hovering

below the surface of the busy world

that magic is happening.

I long for this time,
when I don't need to look good
or be a certain way or try to please anyone.
Where all that I am is only perfect,
where I can be
the wild, loving creature that I am.

I forget this, sometimes, 

and in hurried fashion try to compose myself

for a day of responsibilities.

I miss the magic when my heavy heart

is too busy to stop 

and remember the healing that is

hovering below the surface.

Today as I felt my muscles move my bones 

along a path bathed in honey gold

I felt tears welling up inside, wanting 

to spill out. Grateful, for the reminder

that wholeness is here for the taking,

.here, when the Sun hits the Earth,

slanted light

and the world is sacred.

I never saw a mountain that did not give me pause

I never saw a mountain that did not give me pause.

I'm a humble servant bowing to a king.

Delicate mountain flower, climbing through the rocks,
growing to become beautiful. Inspiring others,
the flowers around him, the animals that pass by.

Small, unique life,

a piece of a mountain, 

a piece of a landscape, 

a piece of a heartsong.

Earth, its dynamic life force,

only moving forward through each wise cycle.

Summer, the tall, firey beauty

Fall, the elegant elder

Winter, the strong dark giving way to fallen petals and seed.

Spring, the young ones

the young ones who make their way up to the sun,

to shine their glorious faces,

to experience their own life.

Sunandrainandwindandpeopleandandstruggle

They live. They die.

And the rain, it comes, and it cleanses our hearts

And it pours from our eyes

And it enters our bodies.

and we touch each other

sharing in the heartsong of each glorious flower,

grieving when the beautiful songs we are used to hearing

succumb to winter.

And when the strong hand of grief

let's loose its grip on our heart

we are free to keep listening, 

free to sing from our own hearts the heartsongs we remember so well.

Mountains are songs,

waiting to be sung

born from songs we never forget.

--Summer Nicklasson 2/20/12

Shine on

Sometimes you read things, or hear things, (or for that matter taste, see, feel) that strike a chord.
They shine on something inside of you that was dormant, or maybe you forgot, or maybe that you just figured needed extra shining.
This girl got me shining today.
Please check out her poem in the first 4 minutes of this video.

"I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it." --Sarah Kay

Happy Spring

The air is blowing through my windows!
The Sun is warming my face!
The flowers are peeking their little flower faces out into the sun!

Goodbye Winter, but not good riddance.
You are needed for this land
(and for this heart).
A darkness before light.
A rest before the work.
A contrast as a reminder to be grateful.

There is much to be done in Spring,
but it is done with gladness
it's like the Earth (and my heart) are yelling "yipee!!"





.

I didn't expect it to snow.

bn

I didn't expect it to snow.
We had some nicely bundled plans
laid out symmetrically and packed
with a camera and all the necessary food.
My tee shirt freshly pressed, and see,
I didn't expect it to snow.

I know the highway
could take me to where I need to go.
But the highway is crowded
and brown and fast.
I think I'll get lost on the side streets
and admire the trees dripping in white,
cause see,
I didn't expect it to snow.

Thankful

One day

In due time

There's a time and a place
 
where the mundane will seem big
where the inevitable will take you by surprise
where impossible happens.
where you think you know, but don't
where the shininess erodes,
where thoughts become actions.
where familiar becomes strange
where the fun becomes boring
where the mirror reflects changes
where the hard stuff gets easy


I'm sick of the bitching posts. I've got too much to be thankful for.

Thank you for finding the words.

distance

Sometimes I open up a new post with no idea of what I'm going to write. This little story sort of fell out. I'm really not sure why. --Summer
________________________________________________

He walked to the edge of the lake, shoes off but
too cold to dip in. She sat in the car and waited.

They used to come here long ago, back when
there was never a reason, before the kids,
before the white hairs.
She watched him, toes playing in the sand.
She remembered a more youthful him yelling as he ran in top
speed, "Today I'm a fish and you can't catch me!"
She was always laughing. She used to watch him as he
adoringly gazed at her long dark hair,
glowing in the slanted afternoon light. Slanted
afternoons meandering into passionate evening kisses.

She honked the horn to get his attention,
immediately regretting so once she did.
He slowly put his shoes back on, returned to the car
and the two of them drove home in silence.

beneath the soil

I spent the day on my hands and knees picking
roots the size of full grown ginger from the garden
and never realized the enormity of what continues on
in the darkness,
after you've left it for
another day.

- Summer 9/22/08

in time

It's possible,

to entertain a wardrobe for some time, only to realize
you never really found your style.

To your right,

is an intersecting path, surely nowhere near as
comfortable as the path you walk every morning on the hour.
But it's there,
when you know you can not walk your road
any longer.

In time,

the burden of things that do not work
will weigh you down until your shoulders
break down
or you let go.

- Summer Richards, 9/12/08

ordinariness

Show me a perfect day

and I'll show you a sky brewing with rain.

Show me your tear stained pillow

and I'll show you skin, wrinkled with laughter.

Show me a road

and I'll show you a mountain to climb.

Nothing stands out without contrast.

In the middle, we have beautiful

ordinariness.

--Summer Richards, August 20, 2008

for dad

Walk with me today.

I'm remembering your voice, goofy grin.

Life seems to be about build ups

and let downs,

a heart full of love,

and always goodbyes.

My feet are blistered and calloused now and

I'm remembering many walks together.

I miss you,

but I seem to be healing.

--Summer Richards, 8/9/08