the rapscallion's lair

a.k.a. rabbit hole

2 notes

shimmering shades of time slipping by
Because it’s almost August and I’m not ready for August, which matters not at all because August will most certainly arrive with a song on its lips of “ready or not, here I come.”
It’s been a busy summer, a busy year, but then again, they’re all busy, aren’t they? I seem to have two modes, busy and doing nothing, and I don’t seem to be very good at finding the correct shade of anything in between.
So be it.
Busy and I are old friends, and if I am honest, busy has saved me on more than one occasion. I hear people all the time talking about busy as the enemy, and I guess I see their point, a little, but mostly, I think busy is what we’re meant to be.
Not that I don’t love a lazy afternoon, or a long Sunday in the garden with no agenda, but the simple truth is, I am happier when I am busy. Of course, busy to me almost always equals creating, so perhaps that’s the difference.
A flower is always busy setting seed, is it not? The pretty blossom phase is really just a bridge to the final destination, a flower’s whole purpose in life is to create its own legacy.
I kind of like that.
Bloom.
It’s a much prettier way of being busy.
. ~Kelly Letky . (via the blue muse)

shimmering shades of time slipping by

Because it’s almost August and I’m not ready for August, which matters not at all because August will most certainly arrive with a song on its lips of “ready or not, here I come.”

It’s been a busy summer, a busy year, but then again, they’re all busy, aren’t they? I seem to have two modes, busy and doing nothing, and I don’t seem to be very good at finding the correct shade of anything in between.

So be it.

Busy and I are old friends, and if I am honest, busy has saved me on more than one occasion. I hear people all the time talking about busy as the enemy, and I guess I see their point, a little, but mostly, I think busy is what we’re meant to be.

Not that I don’t love a lazy afternoon, or a long Sunday in the garden with no agenda, but the simple truth is, I am happier when I am busy. Of course, busy to me almost always equals creating, so perhaps that’s the difference.

A flower is always busy setting seed, is it not? The pretty blossom phase is really just a bridge to the final destination, a flower’s whole purpose in life is to create its own legacy.

I kind of like that.

Bloom.

It’s a much prettier way of being busy.

.
~Kelly Letky
.
(via the blue muse)

Filed under garden life busy inspiration

1 note

dewdrops and sunlight
And these petunias in a new color that took some getting used to.
The lazy days of summer are here, space to breathe, read, sink into the heat and cherish the sky.
It’s been a summer of love.
A summer to love.
The sun on my skin, my faced turned upward like a flower.
Soaking it in.
Holding on.
The pure gold of last light.
. ~Kelly Letky . (via the blue muse)

dewdrops and sunlight

And these petunias in a new color
that took some getting used to.

The lazy days of summer are here,
space to breathe,
read,
sink into the heat
and cherish the sky.

It’s been a summer of love.

A summer to love.

The sun on my skin,
my faced turned upward
like a flower.

Soaking it in.

Holding on.

The pure gold
of last light.

.
~Kelly Letky
.
(via the blue muse)

Filed under garden summer flowers poetry

16 notes

beneath the tree of tomorrow
I am listening to silence (which is never quiet), I am listening to summer (pretending to be fall), I am listening to flowers bloom (a whispered symphony).
The sound of bare feet on wood floors, old floors, the kind that have enough character to creak.
Bird song that creeps beneath closed windows, a tea kettle whistling loudly, the hushed rush of clouds rolling by.
Everyone has all the answers.
I cover my ears, preferring my unwisdom, my empty bowl of questions. There are things I enjoy not knowing.
Where the tree frog sleeps at night. If dew is enough to quench a flower’s thirst. Why a book can break my heart, and still, I’ll keep reading.
The truth is, none of it matters. The truth is, my truth is always going to be different than yours, because universal doesn’t mean we have the same eyes. There are no perfect gardens. The all have bugs, unless you kill them with chemicals, and then that’s just a synthetic version of paradise.
By this time of year, it’s hard to find a plant in my garden that has no evidence of damage. Holes chewed by slugs, or grasshoppers, blooms made small and weak by pests that suck the life from their stems, leaves yellowed by lack of nutrient. This is life and we call it less than perfect, not-so-pretty.
We look away.
I use scissors to cut out the worst of the leaves, the dried brown blooms gone to seed.
Afterwards, I think the plants look awkward, fake, lopsided. They were happy to show us their bounty, their scars, their proof of life. Happy to be riddled with this evidence of time.
Life always makes its mark on you. If perfect is the only beauty you can see, you’ll always miss the map of scars leading you back to your heart.
I am listening to silence (which is never quiet). I hold out my wrinkled hand and brush dirt from yesterday’s cheek.
I am dirty, I am tattered, I am smiling.
And my lips are stained by berries. . ~Kelly Letky . (via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

beneath the tree of tomorrow

I am listening to silence (which is never quiet), I am listening to summer (pretending to be fall), I am listening to flowers bloom (a whispered symphony).

The sound of bare feet on wood floors, old floors, the kind that have enough character to creak.

Bird song that creeps beneath closed windows, a tea kettle whistling loudly, the hushed rush of clouds rolling by.

Everyone has all the answers.

I cover my ears, preferring my unwisdom, my empty bowl of questions. There are things I enjoy not knowing.

Where the tree frog sleeps at night. If dew is enough to quench a flower’s thirst. Why a book can break my heart, and still, I’ll keep reading.

The truth is, none of it matters. The truth is, my truth is always going to be different than yours, because universal doesn’t mean we have the same eyes. There are no perfect gardens. The all have bugs, unless you kill them with chemicals, and then that’s just a synthetic version of paradise.

By this time of year, it’s hard to find a plant in my garden that has no evidence of damage. Holes chewed by slugs, or grasshoppers, blooms made small and weak by pests that suck the life from their stems, leaves yellowed by lack of nutrient. This is life and we call it less than perfect, not-so-pretty.

We look away.

I use scissors to cut out the worst of the leaves, the dried brown blooms gone to seed.

Afterwards, I think the plants look awkward, fake, lopsided. They were happy to show us their bounty, their scars, their proof of life. Happy to be riddled with this evidence of time.

Life always makes its mark on you. If perfect is the only beauty you can see, you’ll always miss the map of scars leading you back to your heart.

I am listening to silence (which is never quiet). I hold out my wrinkled hand and brush dirt from yesterday’s cheek.

I am dirty, I am tattered, I am smiling.

And my lips are stained by berries.
.
~Kelly Letky
.
(via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

Filed under life garden imperfect

4 notes

time will tell
and all you can do is listen
the sound of petals opening is a whisper of countenance
growth is always louder than stasis
rushing headlong into the light can leave you blind
all the answers lie
in the space between seconds
where the song of eternity echoes
two hands one heart
weaving songs of forever
left to dance on the wind
of intention  . ~Kelly Letky .
 (via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

time will tell

and all you can do is listen

the sound of petals opening is a whisper of countenance

growth is always louder than stasis

rushing headlong into the light can leave you blind

all the answers lie

in the space between seconds

where the song of eternity echoes

two hands one heart

weaving songs of forever

left to dance on the wind

of intention
.
~Kelly Letky
.


(via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

Filed under poetrytuesday garden time

2 notes

purple hearts and pregnant pauses
the ripe ones are always waiting
closed up holed up sewn up biding time like the best of new mothers
and you think you know how to birth them
“sounds like so and so” i hear you snort as you rustle past with your wrinkled paper on your way to tea and toast
all posh and proper confessional only on bitter days
the rest of the time you’re sure to rhyme though you much prefer to couple
and i always listen
ears pressed to the floor with fingers tapping
waiting for more
there’s always more
cadence calls and you’re off to supper swilling syllable and savory refrain
waving your fork in the air mid-rant
even as the knife continues sawing through the vein
i serve cold soup and sorry sentence in a too-tight apron laced with stain
and hope that later once you’ve finished
we’ll invent a new word for dessert . ~Kelly Letky .
(via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

purple hearts and pregnant pauses

the ripe ones are always waiting

closed up holed up sewn up
biding time like the best of new mothers

and you think you know how to birth them

“sounds like so and so” i hear you snort
as you rustle past with your wrinkled paper
on your way to tea and toast

all posh and proper
confessional only on bitter days

the rest of the time you’re sure to rhyme
though you much prefer to couple

and i always listen

ears pressed to the floor with fingers tapping

waiting for more

there’s always more

cadence calls and you’re off to supper
swilling syllable and savory refrain

waving your fork in the air mid-rant

even as the knife continues sawing
through the vein

i serve cold soup and sorry sentence
in a too-tight apron laced with stain

and hope that later
once you’ve finished

we’ll invent a new word
for dessert
.
~Kelly Letky
.

(via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

Filed under poetrytuesday dverse poets poetry

9 notes

daisy chain
i remember when romance and hope were the same thing he loves me, he loves me not tattooed in a circle round my ankle
an ink drawn fresh dried forever shackle offered in exchange for the customary key
but a young girl’s heart is always moving forward ready to burst into star-struck song and a brief exchange of whiskey serenade
until she learns with a crone’s bold eye love is not the flower, but the root . ~Kelly Letky . (via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

daisy chain

i remember when romance and hope were the same thing
he loves me, he loves me not
tattooed in a circle round my ankle

an ink drawn fresh dried forever shackle
offered in exchange for the customary key

but a young girl’s heart is always moving forward
ready to burst into star-struck song and
a brief exchange of whiskey serenade

until she learns with a crone’s bold eye
love is not the flower, but the root
.
~Kelly Letky
.
(via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

Filed under poetry spilled ink photography