 | Bridget Nutting is a literary and visual artist who has been writing and creating since she was a child. She passionately explores innovative styles of expression through words, objects, and experiences, and continually encourages people of all ages to rediscover and honor their own creative spirits. Her poetry has been published in numerous journals, and her calligraphy and artwork graces walls in homes and offices throughout the world. She currently teaches High School English courses online to international students, in addition to her other creative endeavors. Although she grew up in Montana, she calls the Pacific Northwest her home. |
What If…
What would our world be like
if every child was born
into a loving family?
What would our homes be like
if every child was valued
for the gift she is?
What would our schools be like
if every child was taught to ask questions
then seek the answers;
if every child was allowed to
love learning and explore
all possibilities?
What would our cities be like
if all cultures and creeds were valued,
and individuals were taught to value each other?
What would our countries be like
if we learned to always listen with open minds
and loving hearts;
if we looked for those elements
which make us similar
instead of those that
make us different?
What would our lives be like
if we realized we are never alone?
What if we realized
that we are each a conglomeration of
failures and successes and
that we need not be
ashamed or defensive
because of that?
What if we learned to always forgive,
instead of holding onto grudges?
What if we learned to love,
not just those whom we already love,
but those we find difficult to love?
What if all people were kind and loving,
leaving us no reason to fear?
What if our children were always safe;
all people could be trusted;
everyone was truthful,
and never, ever lied?
What if we truly loved our neighbors,
never forgetting to also love ourselves?
Would we still find value
in each of these very elements,
or only take
each and every one forgranted?
Would we still need rainbows?
Would we still need promises?
What if…
—
The Poem Speaks
What possesses you to use
a variety of instruments to
carve words onto
blank or lined surfaces?
Words that you expect
me to illuminate then use to
amuse or inspire those who
wander in.
What gives you the right?
There are times I wish to
travel a different direction,
but you reign me in
whenever I wish to wander.
What gives you the right?
I see you struggle for each
perfect word, never assuming
that I might actually know the
best one to use.
To rhyme or not to rhyme?
You ignore my natural ability
to discern.
Your arrogance is annoying.
Why not just let that
which needs to be written
write?
Maybe then,
we’d both be satisfied.
—
The Invitation
Ask me of the song and I will tell
of mystical melodies carried gently
on glintering moonbeams.
Ask me of the magical dancers, and I will tell
of glittering, iridescent angels and elusive fairies
dancing eloquently on each refrain,
carrying forth their sweet songs of
healing and forgiveness, unity and love.
They rise and fall to each individual harmony
creating a rhythmic mantra
honoring the faithful conductor
of the song.
Ask me and I will tell of
never ending love,
faithful through tribulation and trail,
acceptance and denial.
Love that mends broken hearts
And heals those long lost and forgotten.
Love that whispers an illustrious invitation
On glintering moonbeams,
inviting each of us to dance.
—
Where Tomorrow?
Anger spills into the streets.
Another black man laid to rest,
A causality of police brutality.
Marchers gather to protest
The death of one of theirs.
What really happened?
No one will ever know.
Too many have paid the price.
The time has come to
Address these issues,
But resolution can never be achieved
By looting and rioting,
Destroying and burning.
Tear gas and the National Guard
Are not the answer.
Tonight they protest in Detroit.
Where tomorrow?
—
The Voice
I walk these hills
of red shale and limestone.
The scent of sagebrush –
alive on your breath –
and,
I hear your voice calling.
I walk these gentle streams
and crystal clear rivers
filled with families of
rainbows and browns.
The scent of succulent wild raspberries
permeates the air,
and,
I hear your voice calling.
I walk these majestic, snow-capped mountains,
speckled with green, grassy meadows
freckled with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers.
I shiver in the cool, crisp air as
I gasp in wonder
At the immensity of
your magnificent creation,
and,
I hear your voice calling.
I walk these sandy shores.
The cool ocean waves
Lap gently at my tired feet
Erasing the memory of
all hard surfaces I have crossed.
I surrender to the rhythm of their
Advancing and retreating,
And,
I hear your voice calling.
I reminisce about rocking my babies.
The softness of their skin…
The sweet smell of Nivea oil after their baths…
Their gentle cooing as they nursed.
It seems like only yesterday that
I sang them off to sleep.
I cherished each passing moment
as I watched them grow.
I bandaged bloody knees,
kissed each boo-boo,
played in the mud,
built blanket forts,
and made snow ice cream.
I read stories and sang songs.
We mastered
spur-of-the-moment adventures.
As I count each of my many blessings,
I hear your voice calling.
I hear your voice,
and it comforts me.
I hear your voice
and I wonder –
what journey awaits me now.
I hear your voice
and I know –
whatever journey awaits,
in life or
in death,
you will be there.
I hear your voice –
I’m not alone for
you are with me.
I hear your voice.
—
Mysterious Reflection
As I glance into the mirror,
I wonder what I might see.
There’s a strange looking woman
gazing back at me.
Her once brilliant red hair
is now speckled with white.
Her eyes, once bright hazel,
are now dim in the light.
Her skin, once so supple,
is now flakey and dry.
I think I should now her,
though I’m not really sure why.
She looks like my mother
around the eyes and the nose.
And, her hair color is similar,
But that’s as far as it goes.
She doesn’t appear to be a stranger,
Though her identity is lost.
A fresh haircut and color
Would be well worth the cost.
Her countenance is puzzling –
She’s seen more than she should.
Though her life has been a challenge,
She swears it’s been good.
Reluctantly, I greet her
since I guess she’ll remain.
I will try getting to know her,
Though she never stays the same.
—
Only Love
By many names,
In many different lands,
You are known.
Your house
a temple,
cathedral,
synagogue,
shrine,
mosque,
green grassy meadow,
shimmering seashore,
majestic mountaintop –
You are everywhere!
Your children;
a multitude of colors
and hues –
red,
yellow,
brown,
tan,
black,
white,
and
every imaginable color
and shade
in between.
Diverse languages
and customs
divide us, yet
Your love unites us,
together.
I bow before you!
My heart is filled
with thankfulness for
life,
breath,
my family,
my children…
nature,
seasons,
four-legged friends,
warmth,
nourishment,
and so much more.
I am blessed
by Your love!
You are truly
The Beginning and
The End –
Alpha and Omega –
Abba,
Father,
Creator,
Jehovah,
God,
Love –
The greatest is Love.
Help me
to always
be more like You.
Help me love not only
those I love,
but those I find difficult
to love.
Is this not the test?
I am weak,
please make me strong.
Help me always
put aside hubris
and radiate Your love.
Help me always to remember,
everyone is fighting some battle –
Only love will win the war…
Only LOVE will ever win the war!
—
I Wonder…
(There is a quiet light that shines in every heart …. It is what illuminates our minds to see beauty, our desire to seek possibility, and our hearts to love life. Without this subtle quickening our days would be empty and wearisome, and no horizon would ever awaken our longing. Our passion for life is quietly sustained from somewhere in us that is wedded to the energy and excitement of life. This shy inner light is what enables us to recognize and receive our very presence here as blessing. We enter the world as strangers who all at once become heirs to a harvest of memory, spirit, and dream that has long preceded us and will now enfold, nourish, and sustain us. The gift of the world is our first blessing. – John O’Donahue)
The Japanese Maple trembles in the early morning breeze.
A robin searches relentlessly for breakfast,
finally unearthing a succulent night crawler…
Will he enjoy the feast or return the bounty to the nest?
I wonder.
The peaceful cooing of the morning dove echoes
ever so quietly as it rides the gentle wind.
The aroma of lilacs permeates the air.
Two fat, fluffy squirrels chitter as they run the worn, wooden fence.
They miss the two, four-legged black creatures they used to tease –
Where have they gone?
They wonder.
The bright yellow daffodils and orange gerber daisies
dance to the morning music – spring,
alive in the activity of all creation –
a melody I cannot hear.
I wonder.
I gaze at the pictures on my walls.
A plethora of faces…
A recorded history of family,
many who have passed to another world;
children who have since grown.
Time passes ever so quickly;
I was unprepared.
I miss my babies –
I am proud of the men they have become.
Still, I wonder.
I miss rearranging furniture,
then covering it all with blankets,
creating forts
in which to play or read.
I miss long walks in the hills,
spur-of-the-moment picnics,
noodle and bread making parties,
and
singing songs as we rocked to sleep.
I miss dancing in the warm summer rain,
playing in the mud and snow,
watching while they dug holes to China
or built forts of scrap wood
they rummaged from other places,
and
making up silly songs to make them laugh.
I miss cheese sandwiches with the crusts cut off,
homemade popsickles made from red kool-aid or grape juice,
freshly baked chocolate chip cookies,
pickled broccoli and cauliflower which they ate for snacks,
and
Bugs Bunny, Wile E. Coyote, and soccer ball pancakes.
But,
most of all,
I miss them.
I wonder.
They are each the best of me,
living outside my body.
By each one I am blessed –
each one amazing, productive,
kind, generous,
and
loving.
Five amazing men,
illuminating lights,
making a difference in this world.
Where has the time gone?
I wonder.
—
The Whistlers
Shiny, silver chain-link fencing, taut and straight, surrounded their yard. This shiny sentinel was mysterious. Most fences in small Montana towns were fenced with chicken-wire, leaning in all directions, anxious to deposit an obnoxious, powdery gray substance on anyone who dared to touch. “Never open the gate! You must wait to come in.” I had been told. It was an eternity before a Whistler came. They were old. The Whistler man rarely talked, but always whistled when he worked. He didn’t like kids, although we often shared the stories told in rocks he collected…agates from the surrounding hills. The Whistler woman was nice. Sometimes she’d invite me inside her fairy-tale house for tea and cookies – the dainty, hand-painted cups and matching saucers made me feel like I was having tea with the queen. Grandma always seemed to know when I’d be invited in for she’d sent fresh cookies as a gift. The Whistler woman would replace Grandma’s with ones she herself had baked and I would carry them carefully back home at the end of our visit – a tradition I found puzzling.
I loved the garden best! Rainbows of color grew everywhere! Short ones, tall ones, bushy ones – I had never seen so many before. One day, the Whistler woman handed me a bud-like flower. I was afraid to touch, at first; I was never allowed to touch the flowers. The perfect petals were pink and white, blended together. The blossom was small and tender to touch – I was fearful of causing it pain! The Whistler woman gently grabbed my hand, placing my index finger on one side of the beautiful blossom and my tiny thumb on the other. “Now, squeeze gently,” she coaxed. I glanced at her eyes seeking approval. First squeeze – too gentle. The blossom remained the same. Second squeeze – too rough. The blossom leaves were torn – I was sure I was in trouble now. No anger…She handed me a purple blossom repeating the previous steps. This time she gently pressed my trembling thumb and index finger together – the purple blossom opened its mouth and yawned. It closed when I released. I was in awe! This began my love affair with snapdragons.
—
Journey
(A Cento- a poem in which all the lines of the new poem come from poems written by other poets. The lines of this poem are lines from poems written by my fellow poem-a-thon poets.)
How should I remind you of innocence
When you yourself cannot tell the truth?
I wondered about your life –
Would we have anything in common?
The look in your eyes…
Things I cannot see
revealed in eye’s reach,
and I wonder what you’ve seen.
Knowing some darkness,
I am moved to tears –
We all want to see good.
Yesterday became but a memory;
I cannot find my pieces.
No use crying now;
true strength comes from within…
I knew before I understood.
No more waiting for the day to come;
hold onto that darkness.
Slip into the nighttime
and dare tell me
what I take comfort in.
At first glance,
it is all connected;
nothing here is perishable.
No one seemed to question.
I recall ever so sweetly,
there is a time for everything.
This journey is never ending –
another blessing?
Follow me if you want to escape.
Pay attention. There’s love about, don’t miss it.
Love is the seed that you plant and it grows –
a new blessing offered.
—
Just Because
A positive times a positive
equals a positive –
That makes sense.
However,
why is it that
a negative times a negative
equals a positive?
And,
a positive times a negative
equals
a negative?
I’ve never clearly
understood.
“Just because”
is not acceptable.
No one has ever explained
why this is true.
No wonder
I’m still confused!