Wild Geese

 

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Mary Oliver - Wild Geese, 1986.

Art: Kayama Matazō - Cranes, 1988.

Source: Ravenous Butterflies on Facebook

4am

 

I met with 4am last night

She said to say hello

And she said she’s seen a lot of you

Since several weeks ago

She said she hears your worries

When you’re lying there awake

But she’d rather watch you sleeping

With a smile upon your face

So she’s gathered up your worries

And she feeds them to the stars

And they swallow them with fire

‘Til they’re left with only half

Then they whisper to the sun

As she begins her morning climb

And the sunshine takes your worries

And accepts them every time

She chops them into pieces

‘Til she’s left with merely grains

Then she throws them to the clouds

So they can gently fall as rain

And the sunlight then transforms

Your drops of worry into hope

So that rainbow that you see?

That’s 4am saying hello

Becky Hemsley 2020

Artwork by Graciela Perrone, Artist

'4am' is in her first collection

Source: Becky Hemsley Poetry on Facebook

Sticks and Stones

 

Sticks and stones may break my bones

But words will cut me deep

They’ll keep on hurting long after

The breaks and bruises heal

Because the sticks will meet my skin,

The stones may hit my bones

But words will carve their way beneath

And make my soul their home

And this gives them the power

To control me and to win

‘Cause now I’ve words of worthlessness

From outside and within

See stones are thrown in anger

But our words are thrown in spite

And whilst they’re easier to pitch

They’re more difficult to fight

Because we cannot run away,

We cannot just unhear them,

Because their echoes resonate

Long after we are near them

And if we are not careful

Then those words become our voice

One that learns to shout the loudest

And to make the biggest noise

So do not be the reason

Someone hates their own reflection

Or thinks they are not worthy

Or deserving of affection

And when you pick your words

Weigh them awhile between your palms

Consider whether hurling them

Will heal or hurt or harm

Yes, sticks and stones may break a bone

But words can break a heart

And they can be the reason

Someone tears themself apart

So if you wouldn’t break their bones

By throwing stones and sticks

It’s likely for the best

That some words do not leave your lips

******

Becky Hemsley 2022

Artwork by Femke Muntz

'Sticks and Stones' is from 'What the Wild Replied: Poems from Human Nature' available on Amazon

Source: Becky Hemsley Poetry on Facebook

I'll Fly Away - Alan Jackson

 

Poetry

I started with this paragraph and played with it ... I had help.

When the moon is my only companion
I plunge myself into memories of us 

and swim in the river of blurred dreams

When the moon is my only companion,
I plunge into memories of us
and swim the river of blurred dreams.

The water carries your voice,
stretched thin by distance and time,
and I let it pull me under—
not to drown,
but to remember how breathing once felt
beside you.

When the moon is my only companion
I close my eyes and my mind to thoughts
of living days when happiness was
easy as breathing,
when laughter did not echo back
like a question unanswered.

The night listens without judgment,
silver light stitching memories—
a face I once held close,
dreams that learned how to fade.
I stay still,
afraid that if I move,
even the moon
might leave.

When the moon is my only companion,
I plunge into memories of us—
the water colder than I expect.

I swim the river of blurred dreams,
where the current tugs at my ankles
and every shape looks like you
until it doesn’t.

I don’t reach the other shore.
I just keep moving,
quiet enough not to wake the past.

I'm told this is a poignant image—using the isolation of the night to navigate the fluid, often hazy boundary between what was real and what remains in your mind.

ai art by me

Thrifting

 

The first round is for rushing.

For hoping.

For “maybe I’ll come back.”

You move fast.

You miss things.

Everyone does.

The second round is slower.

Quieter.

That’s when the treasure shows up.

The hidden cup.

The forgotten brass.

The piece waiting for you.

Because the best finds

don’t shout.

They wait.

Always take two rounds.

unknown

April Poem

April weeps in whispered streams

Soaking roots and waking dreams

Clouds roll in, then drift away

A lesson wrapped in silver-grey

Each drop that falls upon the land

Reminds us storms are never planned

They come unasked, they move alone

And yet they feed the seeds we’ve sown

The rain may dampen skies and shoes,

Obscure the sun and stain our views,

But what we often fail to see

Is that growth booms in times like these

For buds don’t need just sunny days,

They need the showers and the haze

As flowers trust themselves to rise

Through mud and dirt towards the skies

So when those skies begin to cry,

Don’t curse the clouds and question why

Because the truth is, without showers

We would never see the flowers

And don’t despair and don’t dismay

When all those clouds are silver-grey

For there’s a place, a role for sorrow:

To help us grow towards tomorrow

*****

Becky Hemsley 2026

I wrote this as the April poem for my 2026 calendar.

Artwork by Mark R. Pugh