The above and poem below is by Samantha Reynolds, with photo credit to Ritta Ikonen and Norwegian Photographer Karoline Hjorth.
I Am Not Old
I am not old…she said
I am rare.
I am the standing ovation
At the end of the play.
I am the retrospective
Of my life as art
I am the hours
Connected like dots
Into good sense
I am the fullness
You think I am waiting to die
But I am waiting to be found
I am a treasure.
I am a map.
And these wrinkles are imprints of my journey
Ask me anything.
Spend a moment gazing at the photo. Consider the possibilities:
Who is your Yoni? Describe. Tell about a time you spent with her.
What does it mean to age?
Who are you? Do others see you as you see yourself?
What lands on Yoni’s nest? Who lives on (or in) Yoni’s head?
You are rare. A treasure. A map. What are you, and where have you been?
The following is by Writer’s in the Grove member, Bev Walkler, a poet, author, painter, and family historian.
It laughs, it cries, it shouts, it sings,
and makes no sound at all
It’s a photo, a painting, a place to live
you can hold in the palm of your hand.
It holds everything you can ever imagine,
and sees nothing.
It has no hands or feet or brain
to do what it proclaims, still
It builds a house, makes a quilt, sees an atom,
takes you to the moon.
It comforts, cajoles, strikes terror, or peace,
Depends on what you put in it.
It is the still small voice
of all there is, was, or ever will be.
The following was written and submitted by our Writer’s in the Grove member, Ralph Cuellar.
Our “selves” are like spirits
Until we meet in the flesh
and misunderstand each other
When we’re offered information
we’d rather not accept
When we’re confronted with alternate
versions of our dreamed reality.
Our external world is like a series of
collisions in a bumper car amusement ride.