10 fundamentals to inspire the muse

Photo Courtesy of Marie-Michele Marchand

Every process begins with purpose. I write poetry to capture beauty in language and imagery in hopes of healing myself and the world. Whether a poem is a euphoric expression of love, a lamentation, or a clarion call, it hastens healing by creating connection. Poetry is evidence of beauty’s persistence through struggle. Mary Oliver called it “a life-cherishing force.”

There is the world, and then there is poetry — a force that speaks back, that resists injustice, that forges a new future. This art form enables us to project our internal topography outwardly. It is how we shape ourselves and…

Endless fields of rest await

Photo by Shashi Ch on Unsplash

The simple act of sitting
invites a chaotic mind
to an open field where it
untangles and rests
in endless space

Where it unfetters itself
from the worries
of this frenetic world

Where, as witness, it gains
enough distance to dissect
itself from leaden stories that
seek to define it, corral it
yet only serve as a yoke

Impermanence, once revealed,
devastates the ego whose
nature is grasping

Whose constitutive misbelief
is in the enduring nature
of things

Whose identity depends
on this wrong-thinking,
the ultimate illusion and
temptation of immortality

The mind’s incessant
churning separates us
from True Self…

Allow people to re-engage in their own time

Photo by Ivan Aleksic on Unsplash

I’ve always been big on compassion. I have all the markers of a sensitive person with porous boundaries. I’m drawn to the peace theologies of Christianity and Buddhism. While I am not always successful in exhibiting compassion, it is the path to which I aspire. I pray and meditate in order to cultivate compassion within myself so I can embody and share it. I also pray that it will be shared with me. As someone who manages life with bipolar, I find myself hoping for people’s patience and grace often. …

Photo by Lili Kovac on UnSplash

I drove with my windows down for the first time in a year.

My elbow rested on the door frame as I inhaled every pellucid molecule of blue sky. Early spring in Eastern Washington doesn’t hit 50 degrees; yet I was as footloose as if cruising the Strip in the heat of July. Driving home from the vaccination clinic, freedom washed over me with the cool hand of a prodigal lover. Pedestrians were scarce and drivers kept their distance. Still, I felt reckless.

A foreign emotion swelled inside of me, like a younger self hidden away, hesitant to peek out…

Marie Marchand

I write poetry to capture beauty through language and imagery in hopes of healing myself and the world. mishiepoet.com @mishiepoet

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