Search This Blog



Love is on the Brain

by C.A. MacConnell
Coming soon! The House of Anchor.

Love you,
C.A. MacConnell


Lunch Trades

Just revising and reposting my solution to world 3am. Enjoy! Love, C.A.

Lunch Trades

When I was little, Mom packed me the healthiest lunches. Each one was full of the proper food groups; however, every now and then, she slacked off and slipped in some Tostitos, but I really wanted Doritos, because they were orange, duh. But Tostitos were about as adventurous as Mom got.

Well, being the ingenious character that I was, at school lunches, I sat next to my friend C., who always brought junk food. So a few minutes into lunching, we traded goods, and I ended up with Hostess cupcakes or something rad like that. Sorry, Mom. Not to mention, C. had a pinball machine in the basement of her house, and there was a whole stash of junk food there as well. It was like Christmas 24/7 hanging out with her. That girl ate a lot of pickles; it was the weirdest thing. Loved pickles. Those big fat huge ones. Garlic dills. Nasty. Very strange indeed.

I wonder if she still eats pickles? I should track her down and see if she wants to trade my Amy’s frozen meals for some Goldfish or Pringles or something. Hey, you never know. Wouldn’t it be fun if we still did the lunch trades? Picture it -- there you are at the office, and you have your same fucking turkey sandwich. You’ve been eating the same damn turkey sandwich for weeks. Suddenly, your coworker shows up with a Lunchable. Holy shit! A Lunchable!! You eye the thing. Your buddy eyes your yummy turkey. You trade, and all is well with the universe.

Really, I think that if we went back to childhood in everything we do, we could find the solution to world peace. Okay, maybe I’m getting a little bit too big for my black and white Adidas britches when I say that I know the solution to world peace. But hell, you never know. I mean, think about it. Just for a moment, imagine world leaders doing this: trading lunches, swinging on swingsets, playing in sandboxes, going to swim parties and dances, waiting for a game of tether-ball, celebrating with a prom or tattoo or piercing, or maybe just hitting up some gumball and candy machines at the grocery. Instead of guns, we can trade stuffed animals. Instead of fighting, we can have everyone get together for gym class and play tag football or Red Rover or hopscotch or take the President’s challenge thing where you have to do like a gazillion different events and hopefully qualify to be physically fit. Remember that shit? It stressed me out, especially those years when I thought I was chubby.

Instead of worrying about health care, we can hand out giant Band-aids with magic kits in them, and each kit will be geared to each person’s ailments, but they will also include Doritos and milk money (or tempeh and soy milk, depending) and a note on a napkin that says I love you. We won’t need money for the health kits, because everyone will have learned how to share really well by then.

Seriously, world, forget all the rest, wanna come over and trade lunches?

C.A. MacConnell



Dear world:  Just revised this one, and I dig how it turned out...hope you like it. Now I'm off to finish fine-tuning THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR....going slowly, giving it the old eagle eye. Yes. I hope that your day is full of spirit and light...I'm confused and sad about some things, and I'm annoyed with my obsessive self (which can be a blessing, but also a bear, sorry), but overall, my life is really damn good, and I see all of the blessings, and I've been happier lately than I've been in a long time....getting stronger each day. Just doing my art and letting go of surface feels awesome to just run around and be me. Thank you for reading. Love, C.A.


I am the first one,
the earliest bird
Standing hall-bound,
lingering at your numbered door,
wearing stark white
or loose baby blue,
the wrinkled uniform gown
of my sunset/sunrise shift,
I am the first one
who finds flight,
entering the white box,
the room,
soon reaching out.
Taking your hand's temperature,
greeting your awake shape,
turning it all on,
watching you
shiver back into light,
I smile at the living sight.
Your startled, curious stare
suddenly sweeps
across the silent room
the way morning gazes
have cleaned space
for centuries.
Other than life and tears,
I have no training.
True, I am no more
than the makeshift nurse,
or the lost doctor
in disguise,
but I am the first one
who touches your forehead,
feeling for fever.

C.A. MacConnell


Gratitude Video! To You!

Just a little video to say thanks. BRRRRRRrrrrr. Cold winds, I say. Remember...expect awesome magic. :) <3

Always. Love, C.A. MacConnell

P.S. Sorry it's so grainy...Blogger is fucking with me. Oh well. I prob will post on fb as well. See you!


Wish List

Holiday, come.
On days like this,
I miss the left
side of your jawline.
I miss the slightly
larger shape,
the almond
of your right eye.
Forest to desert,
our wide world
is a shooting storm.
Hooking hands,
we will tread
through it all --
sunrise to dusk,
stillness to lightning.
We will rest
in one simple room.
East or west,
north or south,
we will feel time
for what it is --
low lit, silent
and momentous.
Holiday, come.
Your life
is the only present
on my wish list.
You, me, inside
the fire light.

C.A. MacConnell


Choosing Peace

A while back, I was driving through the side streets in a shifty part of town. It was pitch black in those alleys, and when I looked out into the night, I saw a lone, dark shape smack in the center of the road. I squinted, hit my brakes, and looked closer. The shape was distorted, as if there were too many arms. I looked closer. Crutches. Then I saw that it was not a woman at all. It was a 13 or 14 year old girl, and she only had one leg. The right one. Her left leg was completely missing. There she was, wandering around in the dark, hobbling on her crutches, and from the hip down, on the left side, there was nothing but air.

She was absolutely alone, and she slowly started making her way down that dark street. For a moment, she stopped, looked through my windshield, and stared at me. She stared at me hard. And then she turned, making her way forward.

As I drove on, I thought about the tough look on her face, and I wondered what happened to her. I wondered how and when she lost that leg. Then I thought about what it might be like to be her -- a young teen making her way through the world with a disability that was so fiercely apparent. Of course, I could never really know what it would be like to be her. I could never really know or understand the challenges she would face in the neighborhood, at school, and everywhere. And then I thought about her strong countenance, her steel-sharp look, and the way that she moved forward in spite of her disability, and in spite of the dark street and danger all about her. No, I could never fully understand the way she must feel, but I felt a raging connection to her. I couldn’t shake the vision of her. It touched me, stuck with me.

Indeed, it is still with me.

Today, thinking of her, I'm reminded to pick and choose my battles. At times, when I see injustice toward those with disabilities, I stand up, speak out, speak up, and write. Other times, I forgive, let go, and trudge forward in spite of the darkness that might be around me, like her. Either way, I can choose to embrace the positive side of life as much as possible; I can share my story and help when it feels heart-right, but at other times, I can hold it close. It is hard to find that balance, but I have certainly learned a lot over the years.

So let me be strong in the darkest of alleys and speak up when it’s right, regardless, when the moment calls for it, but also, let me be aware of the times when I need to allow myself to settle into peace. That little girl reminded me that whether I'm fighting strong or listening and meditating, I can choose peace.

My prayer this morning: always, let my actions and words bleed out what seems most honest, divine, and true. Let me strive to do what's right. Always.

C.A. MacConnell



Here I am this morning...just tightening up some things in THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, my second novel. I know, I said it was done. :) Well, for all intents and purposes, it is, for sure; however, there are always things to tighten, and I want to make sure it's 100% I'm giving it the old eagle eye run through.

Giving a talk tonight, so wish me luck. Hopefully I'll get some laughs...

My nails are neon purple, my toes are silver, I'm putting off my back exercises, I destroyed two pillows in the washer, and you know what? I'm happy.

Just a note to say hello. Back to the grind.

C.A. MacConnell



You wore a white tux, then black. I wore all
White, then blue. Your hair was short, then long. Mine was up, and then
The curls crept out,
Falling down; they were wild and loose, a fire
Starter. All of my tattoos were showing.
I wore a veil, and you touched it so slowly, lifting it, revealing
My face. Long fingers, sun
Hitting your knuckles. One tear hung in your
Right eye. You wore a top hat
Until you didn't, and your curls crept out, falling down;
They were wild and loose. We were inside, high
Class, wearing expensive shoes, then outside, barefoot,
And the weather was even -- not too bright, not too cold,
Just a muted shade of
Sky caught between slate and yellow, a natural shadow
Half-hiding all faces, blurring
The watchers. We were on a desert plain, in a fancy
Room. A piano. We were on the mountain, and we were so
Calm, and it was just us, and we were all that was left
Of dawn or dusk.
We were overly concerned
About the lighting.

C.A. MacConnell


The Difficult Rides: Trump It

Here's a picture of my first horse trainer, Jimmy Wood. As you can see, Jimmy was incredibly laid back. His words were few, and he chose them carefully. Like a horse, he often communicated through expressions and gestures. Jimmy was truly one of a kind. I looked up to him as if he were a god, but at the same time, I tiptoed around him. I was terrified of his disappointment.

I took this shot when we were at a horse show at Robert's Arena in Wilmington, OH. I was around fifteen years old, which means I was angry, jumpy, moody, intense, and reckless. Jimmy was always having to rein me in. I know I couldn't drive yet because Mom was staying the weekend with me. At this time, I owned a 15' 2 reddish chestnut horse called Rojo, or "Southern Accent," which was his show name, and Rojo was a wonderful, talented three foot jumper, but Rojo had been lame for a while, and he was back home on rest. We were trying to figure out what was wrong with him, but until then, he was back home chilling. So Jimmy told me to take Trump It to the show.

Let me back up...while Ro was hurt, I rode a bunch of schoolhorses -- a 15'1 chestnut named Robin (skinniest, bumpiest horse I've ever a washing machine), Lefty (sweet bay horse who would only canter on the left lead due to an old injury), Rosco (the schoolhorse-in-training who bucked everyone off), and many more. Always random. On a lucky day, I'd get to ride a horse from the "New Barn," which was where the nicer horses lived. Maybe the 17' 3 hand gray, Lochan Bear. Man, he was handsome. Very rare if that happened, but it did. Jimmy always found something for me to ride, and I learned so much from riding all of the different, difficult horses. Later on, this experience sure helped me when I rode and showed professionally. In a 60-horse barn, some horse always needed exercise and since I was small, I could ride anything -- from the huge monsters to the smallest ponies. I hated ponies, and Jimmy knew that, but he made me ride them anyhow. He always found something for me.

Anyway, Jimmy started letting me ride the big chestnut fellow called Trump It. A thoroughbred, Trump was a big boy, about 16'2, and he was finely boned, long-bodied, and striking -- he had a flashy, big, white blaze and four white socks. In the show ring, those markings always stood out as fancy. I loved riding him, so when Jimmy said I could take him to that Wilmington show, I was thrilled. Well, Trump was a beautiful horse, incredibly smooth to ride, and he was a flawless jumper. The judges absolutely loved his look; however, he had one fatal flaw...when it was his turn to show, when he started cantering around alone in the ring, during the middle of the course, he would let out this earth shattering, lonely sound that vibrated the walls...he would yell so loud, his entire body shook, and a few times he almost shook me right off.

So every time, although we may have had a perfect, beautiful round, when he would let out those bellows (sometimes even over the top of the fence), of course the judges would take points off. So I always ended up with 3rd and 4th place ribbons, even if I should have been 1st, regardless of how I rode. Never #1 with him, because no matter what we did, we couldn't get him to shut up...hence the double meaning present in his "Trump-it" name. Freaking TRUMPET, oh yeah. At the time, I remember feeling continually frustrated, but at a certain point, I had to laugh it off, and I became the literal laughing stock of the people from my barn. Whenever I went on course, they'd all crowd around to watch and laugh. Then I became more concerned about my new breeches and how I didn't like the way they looked and felt. Typical of me.

So this morning, I was thinking back to that Robert's Arena day, and it made me realize something. See, some days you're not supposed to win. Some days, someone else is supposed to win. It's all good. It's all in the plan. We all have our moments, don't we? Winning is fun, but these winnings come and go. So it's best to keep a sense of humor about the mess we call life, I'd say. Also, these adventures with Trump and other difficult horses taught me how to deal with the frustrations of the sport and later, I was able to mentor my students and help them grin and bear the difficult rides, help them keep on keeping on, let it go, and focus on the next show.

And the hard ones helped me with my writing later. Riding horses is a lone journey in many ways...when I get in the ring, it's just me and the horse. Writing is the same way. Just me and my typing hands. I have to be my own advocate, my own mentor, my own trainer, so to speak. So I may have had some difficult rides, but I had some great successes as well. And today, there is something inside me that is so passionate about moving onward and upward.

Later, Rojo got better, and we went on to win many Champion ribbons. And many years later, when I was working at a farm in Loveland, the woman who owned Rojo brought him out to the barn, and we used him for beginners. He was so old then, but one day I hopped on his back, and we went for a canter around the field, just for old times sake. I could almost hear him say, Still goin' strong, mom.

Rojo, my sister, and me

-- C.A. MacConnell


The Boat

He may never come back
from the boat.

Back home,
she knows
that ship holds
more than one
blonde line
of Casper's blow.
Rock and roll
surrounds him
at the port,
and the truth,
the scales,
the teeth,
the fin,
the bite of it,
rests within
the undertow.

She may never come back
from the boat.

C.A. MacConnell


Reflection: Seventeen Years

In 1999, my heart-close Virginian friend Big Mark took this picture of me. I was around two years sober. He called me "Tiny," and we hung out daily; he was like a brother to me, and this particular morning, he showed up at my apartment (which for two years had no furniture except an egg crate cushion on the floor & my computer), and he carried me out to his truck, literally forcing me to get up and go hiking on Catawba Mountain.

I was so sick with anxiety and depression that he had to carry me up most of the mountain as well. And he did. Step by step, he stayed with me. He wouldn't let me stop until we made it to this overlook, but when we got there, I acted as if I would jump. And I thought about it, as you can see in the picture. No joke. I thought long and hard about it. But then he grabbed me and half-carried me back down. More than once, he saved my life.

And then there was Mary, a sweet, loving woman who let me stay at her house all of the time. I'd show up unannounced, and I'd sleep curled up between her two massive Rottweilers. Those days, it was the only place where I felt safe. One day, when she wasn't home, I broke in and painted a mural across the whole wall in her study, and she left it there. Not long after, she called my parents to tell them how sick I was, and she told them that they needed to come to Virginia to get me, and they did...they came right down with a U-Haul and brought me home.

This morning, I'm remembering all of the people who have literally saved my life over the course of my seventeen years of sobriety. There have been so many angels. And when I think back to the girl I was then, I am amazed at all of the miracles that have occurred. And through and through, it is a miracle that I am still alive, awake, writing to you. Thank you, universe, for all of the angels in my life -- past and present. Thank you for the chance to carry on and learn more each day about what it is to truly love. Here I am today, for real, no filter...just me and the sun:

In a way, growing up sometimes feels like this:  how can I live life to the fullest and become a child again? And how can I share that with someone? Which brings me to another idea:  you are beautiful, just how you are. It is my belief that you and I are the way we are so that we can perhaps attract someone who needs our help. That is why we are all so different, it seems to me. Maybe someone pisses me off. Maybe I disagree. But each person has different views because there is a place in the universe for all of us to live and love in a different way, if we so choose. That is how I see it now.

Yes, I feel full of love this morning, and I feel extremely grateful, but to be real, at the same time, I also feel my old depressive thinking creeping in, and I hear that familiar morning voice that says this:  You are a fat, ugly, piece of shit. Why are you even here? No lie. Every morning, sometimes throughout the day, I hear things such as this....You are sure as hell no beauty queen. That's the latest winner. I see it as the old remnants of my serious bouts of depression; however, later, I'll call someone and say, "Yo, this is what I'm hearing," and he or she will help me work through it. So yeah, it's still there, and I don't think I'll ever be "normal," but I fight back, and before I know it, I'm relaxing in a field of grass, feeling serene, as in the above picture. It has taken me a long, long time to wrestle with these dark thoughts. It has taken a lot of hard work.

Seventeen years ago, I had no control over it whatsoever. I was so sick, man. I should write a book about it. Ha, I did. GRIFFIN FARM. Well, fiction, but the feelings are there. Now I may still hear the dark thinking, but I have learned to manage it through right action.

Laughter is key. Lightness is key. No, it's not perfect, but when the serenity creeps on in, it is absolutely the best and truest high I have ever experienced, and even on the days when I struggle, I still feel right in my heart, because I deeply feel that I'm on the right path, and there is so much peace that rests within that knowing. So even on the dark days, I can still feel the sun.

And back when I was in that apartment with no furniture, when I was so ill, I would sit on the floor and type out ramblings about street people I knew. That was the beginning of what is now my 412 page novel, THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, my book #2, which I printed out yesterday. So see, everything happens for a reason, aye.

C.A. MacConnell


Making Big Muscles! The Next Step

Hi there. Here's an arty farty pic of me from yesterday. Just fucking around while I was printing out THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, my second book!!!!!! Seriously, I cannot believe that my printer is still alive. At one point, I thought it might explode, but it hung in there. Amazing. I think I bought the insane piece of shit from Nellie at the Little House on the Prairie Town General Store.

So THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR is all slick and ready to go, and I'm stoked. Proud of this beast. This monster, genius, crafty, smart, funny, terrifying, twisty-turny, shockingly real work of fiction is 412 pages long. The novel is loaded with witty dialogue, unbelievable connections (a web of artistic storytelling), rich imagery, and it'll grab you, no lie. It's fierce. It won't let you go.

I feel absolutely confident about this work. It's a winner...I always know when something rocks, and this rocks, just saying. It feels awesome to accomplish this dream. Awesome, I tell you. Sheeit, it's been a long time coming.

Now for the next step...navigating the damn maze of the literary world. Yes, I've done this for years, and I've been through the process repeatedly, so the good news is that I have a lot of knowledge, a slew of connections from the past, and a lot of practice at it. Staying positive here. So here I am, hitting them all up again. Ha. One thing is for sure...I never, ever give up. I have been at this for...lets see...I submitted my first poem for publication in a literary magazine in 1989 and except for those li'l bits when I had some sticky trauma, and I had to relearn how to write, which sucked, I haven't stopped since then. But even in the recovery years, when I wasn't writing things down, I was still writing in my head. So in a way, I have been perfecting my craft for 25 years straight. Wow.

On another note, are you looking for a fast-paced, chilling, heart-filled HOLIDAY READ? My first novel, GRIFFIN FARM, was published a year ago, and it's available on Amazon, paperback or Ebook. Would love for you to experience this raw, touching world that I created...this one's a rich family drama, a murder mystery, and a love story all in one. No holding back here -- addiction, sickness, recovery, light, rock and roll -- it's all in there. Packed with feeling, it'll take you on a heart-filled roller coaster of a'll make you feel what it's like to actually live with a "beautiful mind," if you will. Aye, in case you wondered, that was my intention.

When I write, it is an incredibly visual experience for me. I see scenes very clearly in my head. As I go along, I picture each chapter as part of a movie. I suppose my ultimate dream is to see my work on the big screen, and I'd be thrilled to have a part in this process as well. This whole time, as I have worked on these novels, I have watched and studied TV and films. I minored in Film in college, and even when I watch Internet videos or sitcoms, I pay strict attention to camera angles, dialogue, the story structures, and the like. With a movie, if I dig it, I take notes in my head, and I can become so engaged that it's thrilling, which is why I often enjoy going alone.

It's exciting to see the way life unfolds, isn't it? I hope that you have a beautiful day. In my meditation the other day, I saw the vision of a tribe, and they were calling me "Little Bear," which is funny, because I've never felt connected to bears, but it made me smile. A new name perhaps. Ha. I see the world in a strange way, yo. Often, it is all like a story to me. I can relate to Barton Fink, for sure. That movie is ridiculously amazing.

Dear god, I start a new job next week. Yay. Fuck, I'm already praying for my future coworkers who I haven't met,

C.A. MacConnell, aka Little Bear


Zoe's Kingdom: We All Have a Place

Her name is Zoe. A while back, I came across an enhanced version of this photo on social media -- the photo-shopped one was circulating around, and it showed her stripes as nearly neon. (So we even photo shop zebras). Well, mesmerized by her unique beauty, I did a little digging to find out the truth, and it seems that the photo (shown left) is the original print, and this is her true color -- muted from the enhanced one but amazing, nonetheless. Indeed, she is real, and she has golden stripes and blue eyes.

Zoe lives at the Three Ring Ranch animal sanctuary in Hawaii, and she has a condition called Amelanism, a pigmentation abnormality characterized by the lack of pigments called melanins, commonly associated with a genetic loss of tyrosinase function; it can affect fish, amphibians, reptiles, birds, and mammals, including humans. So scientifically speaking, this is the cause of her striking appearance. So Zoe is not an albino zebra either. For sure, she stands out. In her world, she stands alone. Sure, there have been others like this, but it is rare.

Imagine how this would affect a zebra's life. In the wild, her ability to camouflage within the herd would be impossible. Her safety would be threatened 24/7. Indeed, she would be a walking target, and this would undoubtedly change the herd. Interesting to think about...of course she is safe in this sanctuary, but here, she still interacts with a herd, and it seems that her mere presence would definitely change things up.

For nearly 25 years, I worked with horses, and I'd sometimes spend hours watching the herds graze. Of course, on these farms, there were no stallions -- only geldings-- and we separated the mares from the geldings, so it wasn't like observing a completely natural scene; however, their personalities varied as much as people's do. Some were bullies. Some were laid back. Some acted like kids who needed naps. Some mares were strong, wild, and maternal. Some mares were demure, yet sneakily affectionate. All over the map. And they formed unique and lasting friendships -- often, they paired off, or they hung out in threes. Some steered clear of each other and when they got close, they'd bicker, fight, or ignore each other. Just like people. Now, I haven't spent time observing zebras, and I hear they're difficult to tame, and I know they're vastly different than horses in actions and reactions, but it seems that there is a similar bonding system within the herds...

With the horses I knew, each and every one, despite their defects, played a crucial part in the herd's survival, and even though they lived on a farm, their clear-cut instincts and roles were always apparent; that is, there was an ever-present concern for others. For instance, the maternal mare protected the wilder, younger one, letting her know that a storm was coming, and that they should take cover. Then she'd bite at the heels of all the mares, riling them up, nearly forcing them to run to the gate so that we would see them and bring them in to shelter. The feisty, thick, ruddy-haired gelding gathered up the rest, even the ones he disliked, when he heard the storm siren, and when the attractive show horse balked, the tough one let him know who was boss. And then there were the mares who let the pregnant pony hit the trough first, so that she could have the freshest water. Despite individual personalities, the overall care and concern was constant.

Despite feelings, genes, histories, likes and dislikes, animals accept their place as tiny, humble parts of the universe, mere minuscule specks of the whole, and they inherently know that they play an important part in the world's survival; that is, through instinct, they are always aware of the larger whole, the planet, the universe. As people, our complicated minds, hearts, and feelings allow us to succeed at so many things. And of course we have the power to create and destroy. Consistently, do we not lose sight of our place in this vast wholeness? Do we not forget that we are in this together?

I am not excluding myself, oh no. I admit that I forget as well, and honestly, I get caught up all the time, for sure. I try my best to continue to do the next right thing but of course, I know that I have a long, long way to go. But on the days when I'm aware and in tune (with the herd, if you will), life just seems...well...right. All good, all right. Just think what the world would be like if we all maintained this awareness at all times, if we were all out for the good of everyone, rather than just focusing on ourselves. And of course, many are participating in this idea in a large way. Many people have for centuries. Each time we meditate and send out light and prayer, we are participating. Each time we stop to help someone or something and don't expect a return, we are participating. That is what animals, trees, and plants do, and the inter-workings of nature are the closest thing to divine perfection that I know. Daily, it humbles me.

Simply, at it's core, nature works, and it is brilliant. Just think what would happen if we could all let go of ourselves and all at once, all together, focus on the big picture -- love, survival, instinct, and ultimate giving. What if we thought of others not during prayer time, but all the time? Buddha, Jesus, Gandhi, man in West Virginia who gave up his health ticket at the free clinic so someone else could have eye surgery, and Zoe -- we're all the same. It may sound fantastical, but I do believe it is possible to find this wholeness if we work on ourselves from the inside out and focus on our place within the design, and in turn, focus our energy on how we can best give. And I could take this further and say this: if we all did what our deepest soul's purpose was calling for us to do, if we paid attention to our hearts completely, if we gave without expectation of a return, there would be no war, there would be no need for money, and no one would even have to work.

Zoe reminds me of the circular nature of things. Zoe reminds me that although I may stand out at times, there is a reason for my presence in the universe, and I can make a mark. Someone like Zoe has a place in this too. Maybe she represents the future. And thinking deeply, maybe she was sent from some divine spirit to shake things up. Maybe, among the most traditional and powerful zebras, there may be some resistance. Some will find her strange. Others, like me, will find her to be strikingly gorgeous. This morning, she is my little miracle.

C.A. MacConnell



Sweaty-wet wings live
In the front row, near
Your temples.
Some tips hover now, reaching out,
Some settle down, half-covering your
Eyes. Some shoot the dark,
Wrong way, no more
Than bars against the skin, making homes
On a smooth brow bone.
You run a hand through the chaotic,
Flyaway hair. Maybe you just rolled out of
Somewhere, a place
Where only her breath
The part of you
That is wheat.

C.A. MacConnell


Morning Poem to You

Hi there...just doing some finishing touches on THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR. In the meantime, here is a beautiful poem by the one we've come to know as Rumi:

"I am only the house of your beloved,
not the beloved herself:
true love is for the treasure,
not for the coffer that contains it."
The real beloved is that one who is unique,
who is your beginning and your end.
When you find that one,
you'll no longer expect anything else:
that is both the manifest and the mystery.
That one is the lord of states of feeling,
dependent on none;
month and year are slaves to that moon.
When he bids the "state,"
it does His bidding;
when that one wills, bodies become spirit.

-- Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī