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Background Image: "Zen" by Wendy

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When the world's closing in,
way too loud
way too cold
I curl up in my chair,

which is soft
which is old
pull my knees to my chin,

with a book
with a cat
watch the rain as it falls...

pitter-pat
pitter-pat.

© 2016 Suzy Levinson

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I.

Even in November
mowers hum,
chopping remains of green,
throwing dust to the wind.

My soul prepares
for the cold,
curled up in a blanket,
wearing wool socks.

This cooling of air
this crisping of leaves, grass, my toes
gives space for new growth
prepares for seeds to flower.

II
When I hear

mower sounds,
wind playing its violin,

I turn my ear–
Listen.

III

I see black faces

of the mowers earnestly
getting the job done.
Do they take pride
in their mowing?

Do they take their families
for a ride later,
drive by the median
on Carrollton Avenue,
point to the grass,
and say, “I did that!” ?

Do any of us
see the lawn of our lives
as beauty
we have created?

–Margaret Simon

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Nature stalks, swoops, and swirls past.
Snuggled, warm and curious,
we watch as bobcats, birds, and leaves
claim the space.

Not a park or zoo, but my backyard oasis.
Hidden in a Northwestern, concrete, suburban jungle,
my cat and I snuggle, purring and chirping,
calmed and lulled by nature's pace.

© Maria Marshall 2016

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I perch in the front-yard maple,

back wedged against

solid trunk, legs

dangle.

A curtain of green colors my view.

Sure-footed ants parade

on invisible skyways.

Squirrels bound

from branch

to branch,

leaping from tree’s
skinny fingers,

without fear to hold them back.

I sit in my tree for

minutes or hours

imagining a day of leaping
and landing,

scolding and chattering,

owning the treetop.

--Buffy Silverman

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Morning deer to greet the day,
wood's green warmth wipes cares away.

Fiery glow to light the night,
blaze of fire, sparks so bright.

Summer, autumn, winter, spring,
colossal colors woods can bring.

Not time of day, nor month of year,
can dull delight delivered here.

© Sherry Howard

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spring mud
watching holes I poked
fill with water

I close my eyes
to feel the give of moss
underfoot

unable not to
shuffle through the leaves
...shall I sing, too?

so unexpected
this effervescent
sound of sleet

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.

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By Janie Lazo

Swirling, falling bits of heaven
Floating down—whirling round
Gently land on snowy ground
Lying there I feel I'm flying
Through the snow—up I go
Through the whirling, swirling show
Winters hush is all around me
Silence loud—Winter's shroud
Whispers peace she has endowed
In this perfect world of wonder
Heaven's show—earth aglow
making angels in the snow

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Rain comes.

(It always does.)

You worry your plans

are ruined

like a soggy

piece of paper.

Raise me

over your head.

I will be your shelter

as you go on.

I will turn the rain

into song.

© Elizabeth Steinglass

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By Mary York

To and fro through the breath of summer

Alone in my thoughts

Wind kissing my hair

Back and forth

The rhythm defined

By legs out-stretched

Legs drawn under

Higher, higher

Swinging toward heaven

Singing my heart’s expression

And feeling fine.

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I close my eyes

feel the wind in my face.

The hooves of my galloping horse

pound to the speed of my heartbeats.

I lean forward

and whisper in his ear:

“We’re raising dust in the field,

alone together, you and I,

and the sky belongs to us.”

Juanita Havill

November 2016

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I propose a 10-count intervention

To quiet the adrenalin rush of doing something,

Anything to change the situation.

Sometimes free will functions best

As simply sitting still and waiting

Until the picture puzzle of information

Locks into place.

By George Heidenrich

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i.

in the crisp gloaming,
a sliver of moon winks through
shadowy branches

ii.

music fills the night;
each note carried on a beam
of silver moonlight

iii

at dawn, a ghost moon
floats above purple hills;
not ready for sleep

iv

eyelid at half mast,
tonight the moon is a
drowsy peach

© Catherine Flynn, 2016

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single leaf, large lake,
fickle winds, dangerous waves,
floating serenely

© Mary Lee Hahn, 2016

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Let me, today, float in the water of life,
the water that connects all waters,
and let me take comfort
in the steady ebb and flow of the tide,
the silky cool of the summer pond,
the gentle downstream pull of the river.
Let me float
and be held
and be still
while around me and within me
water flows.

By Sarah Grace Tuttle

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There is a place I like to go,
Where not a soul is in the know,
Under a pine tree ever so green,
Is where you’re likely to find me.
A place to dream ideas,
A place to banish fears.
A place where I can weep,
A place where I can sleep.
A place where thoughts run wild,
A place for my inner child.
A place where there’s no sadness,
A place of fun and gladness,
This is where I like to be,
If you like, come join me!

By Angelique Pacheco

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Finding my peace
Through camera's lens
Yellow leafy willow
Wild purple flowers
Hums of bumblebees
Butterfly flutter wings
Clamors of geese
Rippled silver waves
Whips of green marsh
Papery birch branches
Water lilies blooming
Snowberry moth hovers
Gathering garden pollens
Finding my peace
Through camera's lens

By Jessica Bigi

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By Linda Baie

When I turned thirteen,

I wrapped myself in the cocoon

Of my room.

Not even my scientist mother

Could observe the events

Developing inside

That layered armor.

Sometimes—

Friends received a small gift

Of a peek inside,

(I’m not sure they understood.)

Yet mostly it was me

Enjoying the secrecy

Of seclusion.

I lay on my bed,

Wrapped in pink flowers,

Smoothed on lotions and perfume,

Listened to Elvis and Johnny and Ricky.

I spent hours thinking,

Thinking,

Thinking.

My wrap was warm,

Reliable,

Safe,

Impenetrable as planned.

I had taken charge!

Later, much later,

I threw off the leafy wrap

And flew away

as the me

I alone wanted to be.

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I wear the sky like a silken gown
flecked with silver stitches.
Cool as a breeze and light on my feet,
I drift through the street, unfettered and free,
then slip
away
with the dawn.

© 2016 Michelle Heidenrich Barnes

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Would there were some anodyne apothecary,

With products arrayed across an endless shelf,

So one could mix the elixir of one's delight,

The amnesiac potion that promises redemption from the night.

By George Heidenrich

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warm blue fleece cocoon
adorned with stars and pockets
shawl collar pulled tight
comforting words served with tea
ready to brave the new day

By Kathleen Mazurowski

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#haikuforhealing 11.26.16

refuge & solace:
today I don't turn on
the news

#haikuforhealing 11.27.16

not by hiding
from the world but by living
widely in it

© Heidi Mordhorst

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Seated in the rocker with swans

carved into the arms

or hunched in the old upholstered chaise

or propped on a blanket my back to the wall,

I sink into a slow ocean breath

and like saints of old, descend

with the mind into the heart—

that walled garden demanding

constant cultivation, survey this sphere.

A vine requires eternal care

at last begins to bloom,

the weed that grew so deep

I wondered if we’d ever reach the root

reduced to random shoots,

the spot a massive oak crashed down.

I didn’t know until it fell the fear it held

and how unfiltered sunlight

alters fallow ground.

Ears attuned to birdsong,

eyes rise beyond drifting clouds.

Patient for rain, I rest

until Tuesday returns

with scent of scones,

coffee brewed.

I carry the sanctuary.

© 2016 Doraine Bennett

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Big squashy arms,
tenderly hold me,
squeeze me tight.
My fingers get lost
in your cozy
puckered skin.
Safety and love,
nestled in you.

By Robyn Campbell

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Safe and secure in
the circle of your strong arms,
listening to your
steady heartbeat assuring
me that all will be okay.

© 2016 Kristi Veitenheimer

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By Lisa Albert

The nightlight glows

Sleepy eyes twinkle

To a rhythmic soothing hum

Steady motion

Back and forth

Little fingers squeeze big thumb

Eyelashes flutter

And give in to the night

A sweet sigh fills the air

A tiny heart dreams

And beats in soft slumber

In the sleep tight rocking chair

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The hammock cradles me under

Skies laced with hemlock boughs

Saplings swish bright green swag against blue sky

Nearby the waves

Lap lap lap

In drowsy rhythm

Along floats a family of mergansers

Crayfish scuttle in the shallows

A lone loon laughs at his luck

Boulders rest along the shore

Harboring age spots, dark and crusty

Lichens tat antimacassars as prizes

Crows caw

Chickadees flit from branch to branch

Mosses clump in every shade of green

Stump stands staunch

A wounded sentinel, mercifully deaf to

Kingfisher’s shrill commands

Squirrels scold and chatter

Last one home is a rotten nut

Madcap chase ensues

Wind skims across the waves

Flashing brilliant shards of light

Birch leaves quiver in the breeze

The hammock rocks

The hour grows warm, calm

I am beguiled by the lapping of the lake

By Karen Eastlund

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of land

at the lapping Gulf

on a melon curve of sand,

sandpipers escape water curls.

I still myself to receive a wave,

be like a sea snail.

A ripple washes wrack ashore,

taps my ankle bone

lays a green ribbon down.

On a sieve of Sarasota sand

Dad unpacked

to fish from shore

Mom unpacked

to read by the washing wave..

I toyed with the playground,

ate from the hot dog pavilion,

tossed bread to gulls,

sought digging children,

did not hear a water song.

These days I breathe the sea rhyme,

stand where it washes a shelf of sand,

feel it dissolve trouble from the day,

whoosh, whoosh,

whoosh, whoosh.

C.JanGodownAnnino

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(a pastiche of Yeat’s “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”)

I will arise and go now and drive down to Montauk,

and spread a favorite blanket there, and lie in the summer sun,

and later rise and watch the gulls or take a seaside walk

that ends with a sunset run.

And I shall climb the bluffs there, the bluffs of reddish clay,

spotting yellow sundrops that adorn the hither hills,

then back down to the ocean, where the soft-shells make their way

in foaming wavelet’s ebbing rills.

I will arise and go now, for I love to hear the sound

of the boisterous breakers crashing like thunder on the beach

while I stand on the sand and listen as they crest, then break, then pound,

then rush to my feet just out of reach.

© 2016 B.J. Lee

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http://beyondliteracylink.blogspot.com/2016/11/place-of-solace.html
© Carol Varsalona, 2016

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http://beyondliteracylink.blogspot.com/2016/11/place-of-solace.html
© Carol Varsalona, 2016

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I find solace in making art
an indescribable refuge,
absorbed in only creating,
my batteries auto recharge.

Energy continues for hours . . .
It spikes my sensitivity,
sharpens my acumen, and brings
unexpected aha moments.

Actions of creating beget
more creating, and more and more.
An inner calm, and excitement
coexist, euphoria perhaps.

Coming down, slowly, gently. It’s
time to embrace what lies ahead.
But hold on to this inner sense
of solace to guide the mundane.

© 2016 Michelle Kogan

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Where do I go when stresses keep me wide awake …

chocolate cake.

Where do I go when I’m the one person I’ll never please …

mac & cheese.

Where do I go when self-doubt makes it hard to even try …

pizza pie.

Where do I go when it seems there is no reason to dream …

ice cream.

Where do I go when my waistline starts looking grim …

Maybe this time I should try the beach …

or the mountains …

or the gym …

Yes, definitely the gym!

By David McMullin

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L ike a house of worship

I enter, breathing in calm.

B ooks offer solace when

R eal-life crowds too close.

A seat at lunch cannot give

R efuge from middle school, or

Y ield safety I’ve found in my library.

© Linda Mitchell

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By Lana Wayne Koehler

Keeping me all safe and sound,

I peer through horned-rimmed frames

To see the thing I love the most.

It’s many shapes and sizes

Helping me discern which one to choose

And thinking I’ll have all.

The words contain the magic

That burns within my soul as

Memories I can imagine.

And, as I revel in the time spent dreaming,

As lives and loves unfold before my eyes

I see my refuge, and I am home.

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I make a tent
with my knees
Dad's flashlight
helps me see

chapter by chapter
I escape the fear
I am brave
with a book near

©2016, Bridget Magee.

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The very best place to be

when life is difficult for me

is a hop atop Toad’s wild ride,

stalwart Badger by my side.

When disaster seems too near,

As if prophesied by a rabbit seer,

I go all Watership-Downy and escape

every trap, snip-snap, in the landscape.

Or I push troubles to the back

of Wardrobe’s deep coat stack,

tumbling sideways toward a ghost --

Mr. Tumnus at Narnia’s lamppost.

Lion and witch flip and switch.

Winter’s chill becomes Munchkinville.

Aslan morphs into the Cowardly Lion,

lickety-split, without even tryin’.

White Rabbit reminds me I’m late,

I’m late, for a very important date!

But if my troubles double, I just wait.

Soon they’ll shrink and evaporate.

I find refuge in lashes-slashes of words

where storms divide troubles by thirds,

unlacing and remaking them as adventures,

sources of fun, possibility-epicenters.

Home comforts in treehouse or Hobbit Hole

are recreated for friends, Toad and Mole.

The best part is when adventures are over,

my cares stay with Hazel, nibbling clover.

Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham

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There’s a place I visit,

you may have been there too . . .

I carry it with me

most of the time, and when

I’m ready out-it-comes.

Location—anywhere.

But a few are favored . . .

Alcoves void of voices,

where my thoughts are spoken,

aloud for me alone.

Empty, comforting space

who begs me to stay and

follow that inner call,

blocking superfluous
dins that try to distract.

Quiet blankets around,

inviting ideas.

The space listens to my

thoughts, eases my breath, and

reminds me to return.

There’s a place I visit,

It’s become my habit.

It calls me frequently,

though, nighttime's embrace feels

magical—I’m ready!

© 2016 Michelle Kogan

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My favorite place to be is…
Here with you, lying in bed
Giggling, cuddling, kissing
Singing songs and telling stories
Reliving the day, settling in for the night
Slowly drifting off to sleep
Sweet dreams, my loves

By Dina Hodara-Bono

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Deep in the forest,

Musty and dark,

Gray and green lichen

Grow on the bark.

Moss coats the tree trunks

On the north side.

Brown mushrooms rise up,

Puffy and wide.

Slender pine needles

Carpet the ground.

Deep in the forest

There’s not a sound.

By Rosi Hollinbeck

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We walk, we four, on earthen paths
made silent with damp leaves
that blanket all the space below
and glow above—our lamp.
Unearthly light is our delight
and earthy scents, a balm.
The woods, they rest, and we—for now—
at peace, know Heaven's calm.

Rebekah Hoeft
November 6,  2016