…I think.



Art and Poetry:

Morning Glory by ValerieDowdyArt ©️All Rights Reserved
Morning Glory by ValerieDowdyArt ©️All Rights Reserved

My Gift
I am alone with my thoughts. 
it is early.
I sip my coffee,
I drink in the silence.
We awake to her light.
The sun glides silently,
From behind the mountains.
I sit,
Breathing deeply,
All is quiet,
Except the birds.
They sing her praises.
I listen and watch,
In awe and silence.
Her mantle of light; 
Slips slowly across the sky and earth, 
Reaching outwards. 
My skin warms from her heat,
Drenching my soul,
It finds every corner.
A new day is emerging.
She reminds me,
To write it on my heart, 
Today is my gift. 
Anything,
And everything,
is possible. 

Why is that no matter what we are given, we always want something else or more? I’ve always envied writers and movie makers for their ability to tell stories that bring me from tears to joy- through despair and fear. What a skill that is to have! I love reading and movies- plummeting me into worlds, mysteries, or make my blood run cold and heart beat with fear,. To feel the anguish and passion love given or unrequited, and courageous life battles. I love them all for the journey. Take me away to exotic places, back in time or forward to the future, or giggling at light, whimsically fun and bubbly stories and you shall have a place in my heart forever.


Back to thoughts on Art, Poetry, Life, Etc:

I’ve mentioned to you guys that I’ve been contemplating trying to write some poetry. Well, I have. I’m sharing it with you, too. Even though I’m pretty sure it is crap, and that I need to stick to painting to express what I cannot with words. But, I had time on this rainy Monday in January- waiting for wifi service guys. The idea of turning on a tv and listening to our world dividing further as it edges closer into civil unrest is just not appealing. And NO, that is not an invitation for political discourse. I’m just expressing my sadness at recent events.


A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books. —Walt Whitman