ALEXSONDRA TOMASULO has been writing on her personal and intimate journeys for a few decades. Her scope includes grief, depression, forgiveness, transformation and redemption. She loves poetry, short stories and essays. She is also an accomplished ceramic artist. Alexsondra now, after the loss of her beloved husband, has found a new rhythm in the art of play as it relates to each artistic endeavor. She resides on the coast of Maine.—
Day # 19
A name should fit,
like a well tailored coat,
It might even change
over the course of one’s life.
There are people who wait till
well after the birth of the child,
observing it closely so as to
allow the name to mirror
the personality or soul.
There are people who bestow
a loved one’s name, to honor the soul that has passed.
And then there are people who create new names altogether.
Let’s not leave out the unconventional names,
like Sparrow, Destiny, or Zenith.
But in the end, the name has to fit,
lest it become itchy, or shrink,
speak too loudly, or worse yet,
that it leaves no reflection whatsoever,
and you become invisible.
on a crisp and clear winter’s night
when the stars dance brightly,
and the silence is pierced
by the hoot of an owl,
or the howls of the coyote,
claiming her territory,
on these special wondrous nights,
what becomes of me, beneath
the largess of blackness
that should, well enough, seem
like a blanket of wisdom,
surely the intoxication of the starlit sky
is beyond one hundred and fifty proof,
make no mistake, I do my best to drink her up,
neat, just like my bourbon, but I do believe
I can hear her laughing at me.
Day # 18
one bucket of warm water,
sponge, needle tool, wire cutter and metal rib,
6 lumps of freshly wedged clay, brown and moist,
like the April mud, perfect for puddle jumping,
sun streaming in the studio window,
shadowing my excitement of the day,
I sit at the wheel, my hands know this earth, and it knows me.
the spinning begins as does the love affair, once again.
the quiet hum of the wheel is unified with my heart beat,
as my hands deftly grip the clay in gratitude for her responsiveness.
we mirror each other in this poetic dance of pottery
and even after four decades and then some,
we still speak to each other through the magic of touch
and the spark of the Divine breathes her secrets.
drifting into sleep
I am called by the ones I trust
the body now tired,
and soul travel a must
not always remembering
that which was revealed
the soul reenters the body
with love letters that heal
the day awakens me once more
to things as they were
silken thread connecting me
to realities in a spinning blur
No Waiting Necessary
Why struggle with where I am
when I couldn’t be anywhere else
but in this here and now,
“to feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings”
I can reflect on the past nows
consider the future nows
but never will I be able to
be fully present except
for in this moment in time,
so I surrender,
though I may appear to have lost my mind
but I have spent far too long trying
desperately to maintain the many well categorized
lifetimes lived, the well worn hats I have held,
and I have grown old and tired living a story
of a thousand people, only to find there is
the me of this here and now, empty and full
and what remains in my mind are ribbons of stories
connected and scattered, and I, the storyteller,
will recite them randomly. “All the creatures of the world are unutterably themselves.” and everything awaits me.
bird songs returning
resuscitating my heart
their flight is complete
He languished upon the counter,
with such panache, no one dared
pass him by without, at least,
a perfunctory stroke of the hand.
But there were others, those who knew
the very language of cat and soulfulness.
And that was the hand reaching, now, deep into
the softness of this most agreeable Maine Coon.
That I was permitted to witness such a dance
of divine interply, both man and cat in perfect
union of the gift and the giver, was an honorable insight
to the magnitude and grandeur of unconditional love.
In The Flow Of The Center
when opposites collide
we must hold the center
quieting the spirit,
winter’s mighty storms
rage their last hurrah
as the bird’s first spring voices
chirp away confidently
they know there is no use in
pushing back, they hold their space.
and we should take notice,
neither recoil nor counter rage,
but like the t’ai chi masters,
yield lovingly, with feet planted
in the earth that knows your name.
The Journey of a Thousand Days
The New Day
grabbing the day
by her inspirational winds,
I meditate in a different room,
in a different chair,
facing a different direction,
and once again, her voice
swirls about like the veils of truth
where in the center, only love breathes.
I have wasted , yet not wasted,
a lifetime, pushing, with obstinance,
persevering through failure, upon failure,
and now, sitting in the quiet of the morn,
comes softly, a place called home,
a point of balance, a point of knowingness,
having little to do with the physical surrounds,
yet her impact ripples through the day
like a child skipping stones upon the lake
in the warmth of the summer, with a gentle breeze
filling her with magical possibilities.
I have long since abandoned
the notion of belonging,
not that I cling to the thought of being an outcast.
sometimes I think that life is like a long game of musical chairs
and we foolishly struggle to find a place within the group,
what a pathetically horrid game it is, I have no idea
who first called it into existence, certainly no one with
any sense of compassion, and it could hardly be blamed on the gods,
no, perhaps it was the invention of a cynical fallen angel, who wanted
nothing more than to watch us scurry about, in a frenzy of perpetual panic
never breathing an ounce of clear and fragrant air, as the anxiety of
being left out in the cold, chair-less, drove our every decision. I might consider that we eradicate the word belong altogether, but of course that would never do, because it is, after all, such a round and inclusive, warm and safe word.
why then do any of us bare the bitter winds of loneliness,
maybe some don’t, maybe some never lost at musical chairs, but then again, maybe losing is winning, because one reaps a wider sense of belonging
and can fly with the birds, swim with the fish or
walk gently with anyone who simply wants a friend.
Day # 15
sucked into mudflats
where the clams and oysters live
lotus beauty blooms
she washes dishes
he sings her songs from his heart
death did not divide
explosions in mind
clarity transforms shrapnel
a new day begins
Branch cracks under ice
crisp white silence is broken
children lead the way