Category: Sundays

aha!

On By ©️K.T. 2025In june, Poem, poetry, summer, Sunday, SundaysLeave a comment

good sunday afternoon,

everyone was exceptionally smiley at me and just sweet and friendly at my local and
very crowded grocery store chain today —
so much so,
that i had to check my sandals — to see if they were matching,
and make sure i had put my pants on,
and that i had brushed through my dirty-ish,
bedhead, dry-shampooed hair before leaving the house,
and that my mascara wasn’t bleeding from my lashes and running down my face from this morning’s exceedingly sweaty gardening session (no, that’s not a euphemism),
that, maybe their shining eyes and smiles were merely expressions of some
sy/e/mpathy for me//

but nope, all good — at quick glance in a full-length mirror of the super store clothing section ///

it seems people were just being universally lovely this sunday, and to me, for no apparent reason, at all,

after all.

////

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sunday, mid june

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Father, Poem, poetry, relationships, Sunday, SundaysLeave a comment

it’s snowing cottonwood,
the oranges i purchased for orioles, catbirds,
are so sweet
that i begin to gnaw on and then eat the unbitter peel,
the crows only half-entrust their baby to me,
left here alone *with me*, yet high up in elm, babbling like babies do, i am listening, watching,
it is my solemn duty to fully raise the barn door for the nesting swallows every morning in June, to lower it just enough at sunset, and to make a soft, clean pallet beneath the nest — in case one may fall,
the dog has startled the sweet red doe and her June fawn as they approach the salt lick and water trough — and they turn and trot away,
your gait and mine, is a biometric, but i knew that already,
i could spot his walk in a crowd, anywhere, it’s one of his most distinctive, memorable traits,
Sun-warmed roses tempt me to taste their soft petals, so i do,
there is a spot here where the scent of rose and damsel rocket creates a fleeting aromatic symphony,
each step now is my bare foot cushioned deep into white clover,
there are still no leaves on my potted fig trees on June 15th — some things, like fig trees, turtles and people — living along the perimeters of the Great Lakes, will never emerge alive again from the cold of dormancy, torpor, hibernation or loss,
every poppy plant here is giving art nouveau, The Glasgow School, Charles Rennie Mackintosh, and i’m so here for it,
is the cancellation of a family phone plan
an end of a family, or just the end of an era?
the black cat*, the feral one, is two weeks absent as of today,
and i just know she’s dead, i feel it.

every thing,
every one, just ends.

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palm sunday : hosanna in the highest

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Lent, Poem, poet, poetry, SundaysLeave a comment

sometimes i touch my own face
with my palm
to remember
that i am also soft

& Holy

Hosanna in the highest, truest Light of Self.

"The triumph of the Light before its obscuration is an expression of the divine, royal Selfhood within each one of us, that is so powerfully obscured by mundane and conventional reality. There are times when we want so badly for that light to shine out of us, for it to be recognized by the world. When the only vehicle for expression is the ego-personality our strivings to be seen are usually in vain. Personality actually comes from the Greek “persona” meaning “mask.” While in this terrestrial incarnation, we are like the Count of Monte Cristo in The Man in the Iron Mask; our behavioral gyrations and efforts to have others recognize our light only serve to convince them that we are egotists, madmen or charlatans. Often we create a false glamour that is not our true Self; we put on an entertaining song and dance act; we live a lie and shine forth a false light: or we simply forget about our light and live our lives as if it had never been.
When we are not anxiously attempting to show forth our light, we are often acting in fear of the consequences of letting our light shine. We either turn down our light or turn it off completely, so that we might pass unseen through this world. Yet, “Within a man of light, there is light, and he lighteth up the whole word. If he does not shine, he is darkness.” This is the sham, the cover up, that we are either parading a false light or hiding our light beneath a bushel. The issues are not safety or creative self-expression, the core issues are authenticity and consciousness. We must be conscious of who we really are as spiritual beings and not let either fear or love of the world pervert or hide the authenticity of our own true Self.”

- excerpted from the Homily for Palm Sunday
by Reverend Steven Marshall, 
Ecclesia Gnostica, Gnosis.org

and regarding charity, saviorism, law, justice and martyrs:

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he swept

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Father, Poem, poetry, SundaysLeave a comment

swish, swish, knock
swish, swish, knock
a rhythm, a metronome
once a week,
usually Sunday

you felt very near to me today, also a Sunday,

me weeping while sweeping, or vice versa

my movement conjured you, conjured the once-me and the eternally you/
me, looking down from the landing//
you, nearing the top of the 2-flat stairs
in your white t-shirt
looking up over your thick glasses at me, with your big eyes
with your snaggle-toothed smirk, mustached/
broom in your beautiful hands / pure lank, elegance

had i snapped a photo of you on them stairs
with that look/

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