to a poet, the human community is like the community of birds to a bird, singing to each other. Love is one of the reasons we are singing to one another, love of language itself, love of sound, love of singing itself, and the love of the other birds.” – Sharon Olds

The beauty of words, rhythm, and meaning are perfectly displayed in a well-crafted poem. Here we invite you to dig deep and pour forth a magical concoction that will make our hearts sing.


jungbauer_2007-headbandI am a wife, mother of 4, a proud new grandmother, and nurse educator. I love gardening (though I kill more than I grow some years!), hiking, reading and playing poker! I am enjoying a life season of rediscovery and honesty, and am weaving a rather eclectic tapestry of old and new dreams. I live in Arvada, CO and have a home based career, which I love!



Song of Life


I sang your song of life while you lay in the warmth of my womb

Feeling the joy of your presence near my heart.

And I sang it to you again, as you burst from my womb

And came screaming into this life.


I sang your song of life, as much as I could,

Between the diapers and dirty laundry

Stacks of dishes and coloring books,

And the midnight replanting of wild daisies!


Then came the years when you began to listen

To the songs of life of those you loved. Songs you heard,

even when their pain had dulled their own ears

To the music of life within them.



With gentle grace and clarity, you began to sing their songs of life to them,

And so many times you sang my song of life to me

‘Ah, and the child will lead them’

I whispered gratefully through my pain.


I see you now, tall and slender, bursting with pent-up life, yet so elegant and serene.

And I pray you still can hear the beautiful melody of your life song

Strong and clear through the din of all the noise

Of this crazy grown-up world we now share.


I still hear your song, but I can only hum it quietly from a distance,

For now it is your song to sing,

Whether you sing it loudly from the rooftops

Or quietly through the fields of daisies, it is as you wish.


But if you should ever forget its enchanting melody, just breathe in slowly and listen,

and you’ll hear my voice joined with all those who love you,

from nearby or beyond the great divide,

still singing back to you your beautiful song of life.

For my lovely Johanna Lee

Michelle Joy Jungbauer

October 5, 2010

poem by michelle jungbauer, all rights reserved

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Christmas 2007Rocky (aka Shirley) Rhoads is a 77 year old retired nurse who lives in Colorado. She has always loved to write and has done so in many forms, and has published several articles, prayers and poetry in an anthology. She has spent nearly half of her life in the Arizona desert and loves the widely divergent beauty of both Colorado and Arizona. She lives with her daughter and their kitten in Littleton, close to the lovely green foothills of the Rockies, and spends time with her son and his family. She revels in watching the many birds, bunnies and squirrels that abound in their area.


Fly On His Nose 

The fly buzzed round and round his head

Then zoomed in to land on the end of his nose

His left turn signal was blinking

But, with the fly on his nose

He’d lost all thought of turning

Hard even to drive the car

While staring cross-eyed down his nose

If it weren’t for my X-ray vision

I’d not have known of the fly

For I was in the lane to his left

I’d pulled back to give him room

But the blinker had blinked a long while

And the car clung stubbornly to the right lane

So I trained my X-ray vision on the man

There sat the fly, black and bottle green

Looking comfortable and unperturbed

At the tip of his bulbous nose

Showing no inclination to leave

And why should he, I ask

He was being moved rapidly cross country

Without having to stir a single wing

Courtesy of a big blue Lexus

And a driver cross–eyed and enthralled

Who was watching the fly on his nose

I wonder if the man will wind up

With his eyes permanently crossed

My mother would have said so


The Lake

I watch the serene waters

Across the lake the mountains

Soft and voluptuous

Green, dark gray, spotted with gold

Where sunlight strikes hill

The giants

Those that reach for the clouds

Are behind, but not seen

From this place

The low, rolling mountains

Are repeated in the water

Perfectly replicated

Though turned on end

A band of green trees divide

One from the other

Beauty seen once again

Ducks and geese float gently

Now and again one flies

Disturbing the water on take off

The water then rippling

Distorts the mountains image

And the picture shimmers

Before returning to itself

A band of geese on the shore

One standing as a heron

On one leg, perfectly balanced

But the webbed foot hanging behind

Disrupts the picture of grace

He turns and walks to the water

The limping gait hard to watch

Balance had come from pain

poems by rocky (shirley) rhoads, all rights reserved

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My name is Holly and I am 25 years old. I am from Collingwood, Ontario, Canada, but for the year I’m living in Australia. At the moment I’m a house cleaner but normally I babysit young children. My poetry is not for everyone but it is a part of me – a part of my soul. I hope you enjoy it.



Today I want to commit suicide
Tomorrow I’ll be elated
Next week I’ll be sad again
And the week after I’ll be jaded

Same ole song just different station
Different days
Same temptations
Have to keep this smile
Have to keep my reputation
It’s simplicity in complication

Today I love you
Tomorrow I can’t get far enough away
Next week I’ll be completely confused
And the week after I’ll beg you to stay

I love this song don’t change the station
I close my eyes
And everything changes
Different song different situation
This is my life
This is my creation

Today is today
And tomorrow will be different
Next week I’ll be present
And the week after I’ll be distant

poem by holly cook, all rights reserved

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I live in Edmond, OK where I am employed by the University of Central Oklahoma.  A survivor’s recovery can be dark, and hope for healing is often elusive. As a survivor, I give voice to the darkness as well as the dawn.
Surviving the Darkness
Swirling through my wounded soul,
Whirlwind thoughts and jagged pain
Dim the light of hope to gain
Restoration of the whole.

Promises of calmer days
Are muted by the darkened skies
Overwhelmed by evil’s eyes
No light can penetrate the haze.

My hope is soon reduced to ashes
Consumed by deadly, heartless power
Crushing every heart and flower
That dares to face the fiery flashes.

At my feet lay scarred remains
Of a life that has been shattered
Remnants of what once had mattered
Are nothing more than bloody stains.

Cavernous blackness fills the night
Saturating my wounded soul.
I crave escape from this shroud of coal.
That suffocates my will to fight.

My hope of healing is all but gone,
And I fall beneath the weight of black.
My harsh tears trace a gruesome crack.
I am broken; despair has won.

Dejected, I face the pitch black sky
And sorrow floods my very core.
I mourn what if? What was? What more?
Then hinting at change, a star streaks by.

One line of crimson paints the sky
Followed by glistening golden rays.
The sun is rising, and darkness sways
Until all dark tendrils finally die.

My hope and strength are very weak
But now I see with different eyes.
The crushing curses were just lies.
“Survivor,” I heard the morning speak.

poem by catherine white walls, all rights reserved

Nina Peterson is a seasoned coach and consultant skilled in personal, leadership and organizational performance.  She has a deep spiritual foundation that provides a source of wisdom, clarity and purpose for her work and her life. Nina lives and works in Boulder, Colorado.


The Holy Desert

Go to the holy desert,

That place of purity, dry and clean.

Where the sound of one ant carrying a grain of sand reverberates through your bones and awakens the slumbering consciousness of your soul.

The holy desert where transformation is both lightening fast and achingly slow,

Where life arises and dies within a fortnight.

Watch the clarity of your mind turning hazy in the heat,

the strength of your intention – wilting and withering like a dry leaf.

Surrender to the fire that demands you sacrifice your will.

Peaceful in the empty shell of your essence – you rest.

Rest in the only-ness of your breath.

The air wicks every last drop away from your grasping lungs.

Leaving you with life in its most basic form.

The holy breath of the desert grants you one more moment of love – one more moment of sensation.

You vibrate with the harmony of the presence around you. A quiet force of divinity fills the air. The beauty of your simplicity, your natural nothingness leads you to the place where you recognize the treasure of your life.

Then you hear the thunder rumbling, the small scratching sound of movement around you. You feel the breeze awaken your skin.

When you open your eyes to the heavenly rain, shout your praises.

Raise your arms in gratitude for the renewal and the remembrance.

Go to the holy desert and welcome yourself again.

poem by nina peterson, all rights reserved

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jungbauer_2007-headbandI am a wife, mother of 4, a proud new grandmother, and nurse educator. I love gardening (though I kill more than I grow some years!), hiking, reading and playing poker! I am enjoying a life season of rediscovery and honesty, and am weaving a rather eclectic tapestry of old and new dreams. I live in Arvada, CO and have a home based career, which I love!


One Cup of Tea

Welcome, oh tribe of most despicable emotions.

Come boldly across the threshold of my humble heart.

I shall welcome you with one cup of tea.  Just one, mind you..

Even enemies are offered the hospitality of one cup of tea.

But I know not yet, whether you are enemies or friends.

Either way, I welcome you today as my teachers,

Though quite reluctantly, I come to class.

Tea in hand, class has begun.

You begin with eloquence, speaking of ‘the common bond of all humanity’

Your cohorts keep interrupting you

And it is quite hard to make any sense of your lesson.

By the end of your lengthy discourse —

I am ready to toss you all out on your ears

And move to a hermit’s cabin with only pine trees and

Squirrels to keep me company!

But absent my all too human family and friends-

To whom would I attribute my own human frailties?

“I guess we’re all in this together,” I sighed.

“Ah,” responded my early morning teachers,

“You’ve got it.” And off they went.

Their one cup of tea only half finished,

As they went on their way to some other pilgrim’s classroom of the heart.

poem by michelle jungbauer, all rights reserved

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Sandra Flear is a somatic therapist and writer, living in Toronto, Canada, with her two beautiful children, and her wild heart. She would love to hear from you, if you are inspired, about any manner of thing, but especially about living an authentic life, because she just loves to talk. That’s why she’s a writer, it’s just one more way to keep on talking… :). You can find her at
i trust me

i trust myself. oh, me
that juicy little red beacon of beautiful happiness
of love
let her love me, i pray. i do.
i desire this self
she seems so divine
i am so in love with myself
can you say that?
if you let yourself see yourself, see yourself from the inside
can you stop yourself from falling deeply head over heels?
it’s been her i’ve wanted all along
she is the mother i’ve wanted
and here she is inside me
oh, i adore her
i don’t get it
i wasn’t expecting this
and it’s just me loving life
if i love myself. i am adoring life
here she is
why do i love her so?
because she is
children know this
they love just because you are
i trust me
start from there

poem by sandra flear, all rights reserved

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