Thursday, December 16, 2010

vapor pressure

My stomach gnarls as i read
smooth words drip
one letter at a time
from finger tips
tapping 'cross your key board

You write of wounds
your own and others
yet what of those
you've inflicted
amidst your so-called
justified tone

A hypocrite of hypocrites
one who offers healing
while exacting harms
without remorse
dismissing the inflictions
as inconsequential

Such can cause my blood to boil
perhaps burning away the chaff
of my own self-hatred
to which you at one time
offered solace

Your genius calls
and you are heeding
i'm sure some will profit
i pray it be not at the expense
of another wounded soul



When I read certain essays or articles or sharings from people who offer help and healing among those who are in process of recovery and rediscovery after cultic involvement... When I read certain pieces penned by authors with whom I've had personal and intimate experience of their own hypocrisy exacted toward myself and/or others that I know... When I read such, I sometimes find myself feeling rage, leaning toward a feeling of hatred, of their words, and even of them. Their words to me lack authenticity, even though the words may sound compassionate, smoothly laced with honey.

No doubt, the authors have helped some people...maybe many...and perhaps even me. But then The Way helped me too. Other organizations, by whom people have been harmed, have helped other people...and initially maybe helped even those who ended up harmed.

As I've stated elsewhere: In any so-called service/support organization, if people are expendable, therein the org is fraudulent.

We all harm others at some point. It is the denial, the dismissing of those harms, that makes the hypocrite.

At times, I imagine most all humans find themselves as the hypocrite. Hopefully we own up and thus become more Hippocratic than hypocritic.

The catharsis of the keyboard. It doth help me when anger tries to squeeze its grip upon my heart toward vengeance.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

~ random thoughts in october ~

I am not quiet inside
There are hints of fear
Emotional bits letting me know

I am not in control

I know the feeling will pass
The hints will quiet
The bits will dissolve

I know the sun will rise

There are boils on my left thumb
They extend down my left wrist
They too will dissolve

Countless memories of hives

I dreamt last night
Of the big house with rooms not used
Of water leaks and mountain views

I dreamt of the auditorium

Five pianos and an organ
Furniture old and dusty
Crowded into every corner

We never did tour the bathrooms

My body ages and carries more weight
Exercise is no longer my lifestyle
Dramatic changes are on the horizon

Sometimes I miss Facebook

carol welch
october 31, 2010

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Poetic Doodles

Perusing some scribbles from my private blog, I found a few poetic doodles.

If rocks could sing
What would they say
Would they grow feet
Come out to play
Or would they stay
Under the ground
Watch us humans
Toil up and down

may 5, 2010


Heart, smiles
Peace, deep
Life, breathes
Satisfaction, sweet

John, back home
Sarah, with Yerba
Joshua, on ladders
Carol, in love

Earth, spins
Sun, warms
Ocean, rolls
Moon, smiles

All is well

may 7, 2010

Backpacking Jingle

Quads, hamstrings
Trekking poles and hip flexors.
Quads, hamstrings,
Trekking poles and hip flexors.
Quads, hamstrings,
Trekking poles and hip flexors.

That's how I make it 'cross the mountain.

Feet relax.
Ankles supple.
Long strides.
Ankles firm.

Quads, hamstrings
Trekking poles and hip flexors.

That's how I make it 'cross the mountain.

mid-may, 2010


Oh Wind

Your kind breezes
kiss my cheeks

Yet I know the fury
in Your passion

Gently rest Your lips, I pray,
and may Our passions meld

may 30, 2010

Sunday, September 12, 2010

flat screen

move outside this screen
the virtual tempter
flat, two dimensional

sight and touch
neither fully embracing
depth or harmony

length and height
click and space

causing the mind
to dive deeper
into non-presence

causing the body
to sit, immobile,
stationary in false-reality

causing emotions
to swirl, unable to break
bonds of addictions

move outside this screen
the virtual tempter
flat, two dimensional

september 12, 2010

Computers and technology. All have their place, within boundaries.


underneath my skin
just beneath the surface
an unreachable itch
vacillating, floating
trying to push through

to reveal, to disclose
to expose, to liberate

the tiny morsels
suppressed by authority
screaming for release
so as to not be buried

where 1000 splinters
morph into boards
solidified plywood
encasing my heart
as it silently pulses

september 10, 2010

Verbal abuse plus the silent treatment.
A soul murdering combination.
But only if I allow it.

Friday, September 3, 2010


Inspired by Ron and Diane ~ originators of 10,000 Miles 10,000 Dreams.

Sweaty. Sticky.
Salty beads roll down my torso
Trekking poles aid my sinews
Sinews aged, one-half century

Ascent. Rocks.
I peer ahead
Daughter of my youth has stopped
Stopped to converse with two passers-by

Trudge. Halt.
I stand beside my offspring
Introduced to the travelers
Travelers of 10,000 miles, gathering 10,000 dreams

Unload. Chat.
The four of us
Loosen straps, unclick clips
Clips that hold the packs, packs upon our backs

Serendipity. Resonance.
Sharing details of our lives
Each keenly aware of significance
Significance of this wilderness crossing

Dreams. Boldness.
"What is your life's dream?"
"If you were 10 times bolder,
how would you change the world?"

Corridors. Doubt.
My mind freezes
Searching its corridors, unsure
Unsure of my life's dream

Video. Sound.
Of the 10,000, I am 241
Daughter is number 242
Number 242 recorded on the digital screen

Humbleness. Pride.
I listen as Number 242 responds
And it dawns upon me
It dawns upon me that I behold

Before my eyes and with my ears
My life's dream fulfilled
One of my own 10,000 dreams
One of my own 10,000 tears

10,000 tears of gratitude

august 19, 2010


My 22-year old daughter, Sarah, and I took a couple-night backpacking trip in August, 2010, along the Appalachian Trail in New York.

Our route began around 7:00 pm from just south of Perkins Tower which is located on the top of Bear Mountain. We pitched tent after about a mile on an an open area with some rocks overlooking an awesome view of low mountains in the distance and a Hudson River tributary, the light diffusion from NYC visible all through the dark hours.

The next day we proceeded North, trekking through Bear Mountain Trailside Museum, which is a zoo featuring local animals. Yes, the AT goes right through the zoo, white blazes and all.

Upon exiting the zoo, the AT then leads the hiker across the Hudson River on the sidewalk of the Bear Mountain Bridge, traffic whirring by under the bridge cables and towers. Eventually, the AT exits 'civilization' and re-enters the woods. I think that wooded area is known as the Hudson Highlands.

By the end of the day we had hiked some eight to nine miles and pitched tent at the soccer field of the Graymoor Monastery. An awesome place which provides a cold shower and running water. Two luxuries for a backpacker. We camped that night with another backpacker, a section hiker who is a New Jersey State Trooper. I joked to my daughter that we were well protected - a state trooper on one side and a statue of Jesus on the other. Ha!

The next day, we headed back to Perkins Tower. It was due to an incident on the return trek that the poem originated.

Along the trail we met two beautiful people, as most AT backpackers are. I do really mean that; I love backpackers and hikers.

These awesome folks are Ron and Diane. They are hiking 2100 miles and then biking 7900 miles. Along the way they are collecting 10,000 dreams, one for each mile, via video recording which they then blog.

This collection will be combined into an art project to inspire people, folks of everyday life, to have hope and to reach for their dreams. What an awesome project!! Here is their website, Journey of Dreams.

When Diane asked me the question, "What is your life's dream?" my mind became paralyzed. Paralyzed because of a recent personal relationship conflict that had affected me at my core self and had left me in much internal distress and self-doubt. Just that morning I had journaled asking myself, "What do I do now? What is my focus?"

Anyhoo, I came up with one of my dreams to share for their project. They recorded my dream and I assume it will eventually appear on their blog in the Dream Interviews. I am the 241st dreamer and my daughter is Number 242.

I stumbled with my answer as the camcorder looked at me.

Then it was my daughter's turn.

And as she spoke, I realized....that my children are my greatest dream fulfilled. They are awesome people, in spite of my (and my wonderful husband's) parenting blunders. I treasure the decades we have been blessed to grow together. And now, my young adult children are my friends, at least as much as one can be *friends* with their kids.

What greater fulfillment could I ask?

Brings to mind a song from my Way days: "Sometimes I forget that I've been given, my life's dream..."

[An added funny. Ron and Diane live in Asheville, just a few hours from me. Ha. Life and serendipity.]

~Thanks to Ron and Diane for the inspiration~

Sarah appears at minute 5:26 on Ron and Diane's Journey of Dreams Webisode 6: NJ/NY.....

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Lessons from Darkness

cold, windy, dark

Faint reflections of obscure light
struggle to reach the floor
through the forest trees.

silk, wool, down

Each weathered traveler
layered with coverings
for protection from the elements.

boots, gloves, hood

Each expiration my breath echoes
as I peer beyond my quilted cowl,
relieved by the sight of human forms.

Sheathed with weather proofing
hiding from the crystal-laden steel air,
our contours appear similar.

At least we have these openings
through which to look around,
assuring ourselves that we are not alone.

A clearing in the timbers.
To the east?
The same landscape.
To the west?
A denser, darker patch.

Some go east.
Others go west.

I need a change,
I choose west.
Besides, I've heard it's always darker
right before the dawn.

We enter the haunted thicket
frostbite in the air,
darkness swallows us.
Our bodies gather closer,
it feels safer that way.

Huddling we trudge.
The temperature amongst us rises,
some remove their hoods.
It's nice to see a human face again,
to hear another voice in place
of my echoed breath.

The warmth gives rise to hope.
Survival with grace

We struggle through the thick darkness,
no longer obscure human figures.
Forced to travel more closely,
it is clear our forms are uniquely shaped.
Each contour has its place along our sunless path.
Necessity with grace

Landscape changes,
darkness slowly fades to light,
images become lucid.

limpid, warm, inviting

Sun shines clearly
streaming lightly to the floor
though the scattered trees.

Layer by layer
we discard our protective garments.
Our outlines now in full array,
beauty to our eyes
deep appreciation
each mortal significant, distinct.

Survival, necessity, grace
Life, significance, purpose

Darkness to light

may 3, 2007

Perhaps I'll add the context later.

I think I tire of adding contexts.  Ha!

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

deja vu

pen paralyzed
murdered muse

it were a dream

and I'd awake
to discover it

Tuesday, August 3, 2010


Had a hard day today
A friendship died
And I'm very confused as to why or how

I endeavored to open the door
To talk, to understand
But the door was shut with my face in it

It hurt

Apparently I am responsible for the death
The friend told me
"You destroyed our friendship"

And I don't even know how I committed the murder

I never want to burden a friend
With the responsibility they need to defend me
I don't make a good defense barrier

Maybe that means I am a rotten friend
Maybe I can't be trusted
And now my heart wonders

Can it trust itself again


Don't feel like writing the context. It is what it is. Though I am stunned by it all. I feel raw and numb at the same time. It will take some time to not shake inside. That shake that comes when I feel I can't trust myself.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Zephyr's Croon

As I stroll
Breezes blow
Whispering echoes
From long ago

A simpler life
Or so we're told
Eat, sleep, harvest
Times of old

Overload's toll
In this modern age
So much to do
Progress's gauge

Fulfillment's gap
Wider grows
With each new toy
To ease our woes

Breath doth sigh
One cannot miss
What has not been
Nor yet exists

Lucky the warbler
From twigs and grass
She twines her nest
As in ages past

Slow our pace
Heed her voice
Purl, weave, rest
A simpler choice

march 16, 2008

I enjoy sitting upon a mountain ridge and listening. Often I hear the wind as it approaches. And then I feel it kiss my cheeks. My thoughts wonder, bask, and dive into Zephyr's touch and voice.

There are many voices in the wind. Some speak of past. Others of future. All of the gift, the present. May we heed their lessons more and more.

This poem was written after a day hiking around The Saddle.

Saturday, May 8, 2010


I'm getting ready to be away from cyberville and technology for a bit. Thus I am putting blog comments on moderation.

I'm heading out on May seventeenishith for a lengthy hike (at least for me) on the Appalachian Trail. I am psyched!

I might approve any comments this upcoming week or it may be sometime in June before I'll approve comments. I'll be pretty busy this upcoming week with final preparations.

Happy Trails to me...


Friday, April 23, 2010

Be Gentle with the Tide

At ease among the young ones
Their eyes display no pretense
Therein I find a rest
In their honesty of heart

Why do grown-ups find it hard
To say the words I'm sorry
Why is it viewed as weak
Why does it offend

Words have finite limits
Mere reflections of the deep
Ocean's depth is fathomless
The origin of our soul

Please be gentle
I promise you the same
If ever my tide is rough
I pray you, let me know

Before you set your sail

april 29, 2oo8


It is obvious I am neglectful of this blog. I do want to update it, along with my neglected archive over at Poetry Pages (PPs). And the thousand other things I want to do. I hope there is an eternity. I don't think I'd ever get bored!

My last entry in my Poetry Pages archive is dated March, 2009. I have written some poems since then but haven't recorded them into my archive.

So today, April 24, 2010, I decided to peek back (via my PPs archive) into the month of April, 2008, to see what I had written then. I picked "Be Gentle with the Tide," obviously.

I enjoy young children, hanging out with toddlers. I like them; they like me. We giggle. We sing. We converse. We play. We get along so very well.

Their eyes, their eyes. So very deep, so very tender, so very innocent.

There is nothing to prove between us, other than to simply be.

And when we hurt the feelings of the other, we say, "I'm sorry."

I wish it were the same more often in the world of big people.

Sometimes the eyes convey more than the words.

Eyes. Depth. A peek into the ocean of soul where the tide ebbs and flows. From where life begins and ends. The tide.


Sunday, February 28, 2010



In and out

Some with laces
One goes on right foot
Other slips on left

Some with snaps
One covers right hand
Other protects left

Some with anchors
One pokes right lobe
Other pierces left

Some with stones
These band fingers
Those circle toes




My first thought was shoes. And I went from there.

Thursday, February 25, 2010


Upon my porch I sit
Wrapped in the morning melody
Birds, breezes, cicadas
Singing in perfect harmony

Weeping willow in full array
Swaying with the tune
Sunbeams dance upon her
Tiny lights, a multitude

Yet the oak leaves are not shimmering
Nor the elms, nor the figs
Only the weeping willow
Displays one thousand glitterings

Tears perhaps, is she crying?
Yet her display is not of gloom
Rather tiny sparkles glistening
Tears of God renewed

Splendor of hope
Upon the weeping willow

july 4, 2007


Not much need for explanation. The prose simply describes that July morning that I wrote the poem as I sat upon my back porch. The weeping willow was the only tree that glittered in the sunlight, the leaves still damp from a gentle rain or dew. A breeze lightly danced the leaves, and thus the shimmerings.

Tears are our friends.

In the wee hours of today, February 25, 2010, this poem comes to mind as I listen to a Leonard Cohen song, "Hallelujah," sung by K.D. Lang. {Thank you Chris.}

Perhaps the song brought this poem to mind because love (and life) can be such a paradox.

Saturday, February 13, 2010


Sitting upon cushioned chair
Tapping on the keyboard
Pausing to think, take a breath
Slurping on a smoothie

Leaning back on two wooden legs
Smiling, words drifting through
Rubbing hands so as to warm
Sighing, stretching, yawning

Almost time for bed
But first a toasted
English muffin with
Blueberry spread



Just sittin' here noticing myself.  What my body is doing.  It makes me smile.  I like simple - like muffins with blueberry spread after slurping my blueberry smoothie.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

The Ride

My loins straddle the dapple gray
Her sinews 'neath my thighs
She shakes her head, impetuous fervor
Awaiting my signal to embark the ride

Forward I lean, her neck to embrace
She turns her face, crystal blue eye
Filled with excitement, it speaks to me
Nostrils flare, arousal is high

I read her, she reads me
I sit upright, we both breathe deep
Silver mane now in my palms
Anticipation's climax, heart's pulsing beat

Bodies' rhythms dance as equals
She detects the press from my knees
Tossing her head, she springs forward
Nothing but wind beneath her feet

Passionate fury, we move as one
Rainbow's edge, far side of the storm
Freedom once tasted, never forgotten
Upon my dapple gray unicorn

august 12, 2oo7