Sunday, November 8, 2015

An Open Letter to Mother Nature

 © Susan Marie

Dear Most Holy Mother Nature,

I hope you are having a glorious day. I am writing with hope that you hear me, this one simple soul in vast, endless realms of being.

I admire your strength, beauty, your utmost perseverance. The wonder you provide me daily is ecstatic. I appreciate your waters that surround me, the colors you adorn through Autumn, your bird-songs during Spring and the first pure snowfall in Winter. I must admit, the cold I can do without forever, as well as the mountains of snow that seem to never melt, so please, bear with me, I have a message that has a point.

You see, my head is in a vice. My bones hurt. Lately, I feel like I am suffering from multiple personalty disorder although I am pretty sure I am quite fine, yet the physical ailments are due to your ever changing moods, sporadic and unannounced

I understand you are not fully to blame. This race, the human one, can be quite selfish and must bear witness and be held accountable for your behavior. I know you are more than angry with us all and on my end, I am sorry for the cruel actions of my fellow brothers and sisters in the past and present. 

I have immense trust that the lot of us that champion for change have begun to reverse some of the damage and abuse. I know we cannot replace what has been lost and for that, I am eternally in debt to you.

For now, please decide on the season. Last week it was July, the week before that it was hailing when it rained, the past week was cold then sunny then warm then humid then cloudy then freezing then sunny and today, it feels like April coming into May. 

Please excuse my outright ignorance, but you do realize it is November?

Don't get me wrong, this is not a complaint whatsoever. I want you to be fully yourself, majestic and unstoppable and hope that you decide to spare us winter for that would be perfectly fine with me. I can start a petition if you like? I tend to look vampirish for 5-6 months and hibernate so the sun as of late, is utterly pleasant and the high temperatures are quite lovely. 

Thank you for being gentle with us all. You are indeed, at times, an empathetic force.

What I am getting at is for us sensitive souls, the human barometers. Can you please stay one way, if at all possible? I ask you this from the depths of my humble heart because my skull is wishing it were a pumpkin smashed on the late October sidewalks.

I know I am only one human soul and although I can scream loud enough for you to hear, I offer this simple supplication to you to forgive us all for being materialistic and full of ego.

Today, the great eye of heaven is sneaking through my windows.  On my porch, I still have peppers and tomatoes growing. My heating bill is low and I have had no need to don winter clothes. What a blessing! 

If my voice means anything to you, Dear Mother Nature, my utmost wish is that we just skip winter entirely and pretend it is May. That sounds like a plan!

I am grateful for this rare occasion of existing without the usual drastic arctic temperatures and snowdrifts. It is my hope and eternal wish that you are happy and keep smiling as you are. 

My intention is that you decide fully on one emotion and not forty. I understand you, although I have no rational explanation for the female gender myself.

May this reach you in peace and know that I seriously have things to accomplish and I do my best to keep you safe, happy, alive and free.


Your endless muse,

Susan Marie

Thursday, October 29, 2015


caught -
within irises
lined with silver gilt -

steel shoulders
of hope,
like trees in winter,

unwavering statues,
among the dying fields of Autumn
still apparent,
beneath the first drifts
of snowfall,

and the fierce songs
of winter, harsh,
bypass you
on each
and every side

unwavering to the sudden change of season.

The birds find solace
in your limbs as arms
and legs as trunks
of roots of ages
of hallowed love,
profound -
reaching the pads of my feet
planted pure,
among dirt and sand
touching you
ever so gently,
with a song
of my own.

My dearest soul,
we share the universe
the clouds and sun,
the phases of the moon,
the planets and stars,
the rise of each Vesuviant dawn
and the angelic embrace
of the calming whisper
of the coming of night.

My most holy heart,
I bow my head in grace
for what cannot be revealed
is felt,
and I pray to your human form,
for you have allowed me
to die a thousand deaths
to myself, within you.

We have taken flight,
like Ancient Greeks
upon peaks
of the Hindu Kush,
while walking barefoot
as indigenous once did
in one of five Great Lakes
walking side by side,
oceans away.

Here I am -
me, with you

and you


© Susan Marie

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

15 Must Check Out Websites

I get lost on websites, depends on the content, what is being stated, written, spoken, reported. Sometimes, you find free books, audio, meditations, music, workshops, and writing.

This is not why I share these websites. 

I share them because the content is fantastic, enlightening, diverse, humorous and uplifting.

I advise signing up to the newsletter/page, then share what you find with others. I linked the sites for this week below because these people inspire, empower and bring me happiness.

Keep learning, growing, sharing, educating and shining! 

1. The Soul Artist Journal - L.R.Heartsong  

2.  Freedom with Writing 

3. Long Walks and Rose Gardens - Haneen Khalid 

4.  Rebelle Society

5. Authors Publish

6. Soul Support For Changemakers - Amy Garner    

7.  drunkmall 

8. For Reading Addicts 

9. The Empathy Library 

10. Long Distance Love Bombs - Jeremy Goldberg 

11. Quiet Revolution 

12. Sacred Activism - Andrew Harvey   

13. S.R. Atchley 

14. DesignWars 

15. Sacred Ecology Films 




Friday, October 23, 2015

The Color Spectrum Theory [Black vs. White]

First published on MOGUL

© Kaish

Newton’s Color Spectrum Theory on black and white loosely states: 

Black is the color of objects that do not reflect light in any part of the visible spectrum. 

Scientifically, a black object absorbs all colors of the visible spectrum and reflects none of them. This is sometimes confused with black being “a mixture of all colors”, but that is not the case. In fact, an object emitting or reflecting all colors is perceived as white. Sometimes black is described as an "achromatic color"; in practice, black can be considered a color, e.g., the black cat or black paint. Black is the lack of all colors of light. 

Think about this for a moment:  Black is not a mixture of all colors yet absorbs all colors, reflecting no colors.  If black absorbs all colors then black invites all colors into itself. 

How is it possible that black lacks all colors when all colors are absorbed into black? 

Let us take a look at white: 

White is the combination of all colors of the visible light spectrum. It is an achromatic color, like black. White is technically achromatic, and not a color, since it has no hue. 

The impression of white light occurs by mixing appropriate intensities of the primary colors of light: red, green, blue. An object emitting or reflecting all colors is white. White is not a color since it has no hue. White is only a color with other colors added. White can emit or reflect colors but cannot absorb them. Thus, white does not invite colors into it, rather sends colors outward. 

Scientifically speaking, black absorbs all colors, inviting them in. White reflects all colors sending them out. 

A spectrum defined is a distribution. A common list identifies six main bands: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet. Newton's conception included a seventh color, indigo, between blue and violet. 

Thus, a spectrum is a distribution of colors. Black is a color, white is not a color. Black absorbs all colors, white emits them. 

Black being a color that absorbs all colors can be a part of a spectrum where white cannot because white needs a spectrum in order to be a color. White depends upon black in order to become a color because black absorbs all colors. White can never be a spectrum. 

White is white without black. Black is black without white.

Think then, how is black a color and white not a color when you need white to lighten black? 

White added to black allows black to be a color because it lightens black. Red cannot lighten black, only white. Black takes in all colors, colors added to white creates other colors. White is devoid of color, black has all color. 

One cannot exist without the other because if only white existed, there would be no color and if only black existed, there would be no color. 

What then happens to the colors themselves? 

Do they have a say in this theory? 

Red, yellow and blue can mix all colors. 

So then, why does this theory focus intently on black and white when in reality, without the primary colors: red, yellow and blue, there would be no color, rather one specific color? 

According to theory: 

ROYGBIV equals Black.
ROYGBIV cannot equal white because white needs ROYGBIV to become a color. 

Black is a spectrum unto itself. White cannot exist without other colors. White cannot be a spectrum because it has no color, while black is a spectrum. 

The irony is that one color cannot exist without the other. 

If colors had to survive as living organisms according to this theory, white cannot survive without all of the colors, yet black can thrive. Black holds all colors, yet not all colors can be seen in the presence of black.

Thus, white needs black to survive and black needs white to survive. 

Why then is black a color while white is not and black is considered a lack of all colors? 

Why is it that these two colors dominate all colors? 

Why are theories so focused on black and white when in between there are spectrums of beauty? 

Monday, October 19, 2015

"Left Ajar" {poetry} by Arshia Qasim, Aisha Sharif and Susan Marie

First published on MOGUL  
On The Poet Community
 © Arshia Qasim

A door half shut
a door half open,
Mysteries to unfold
promises to hold.

A heart that thunders
a mind that ponders,
One-step travel bound
one-step firmly ground.

In-between go, stop and if,
Life shapes, bit by bit.

Left ajar,
my heart.
Much like keys that fit,
like hips and curves
of notes and clefts,
and question marks and apostrophes,
hanging midair
in breath,
caught and held,
as sentences
never spoken,
yet felt.

The door left ajar
what does it mean to the air,
It can push it either way
as it goes from here to there.

Love waits on both sides
unhurried, calm and patient;
There is no room for despair
hope lies in what is vacant.

There is choice,
like flight.
Hurry love!
Do not make haste,
the door is open,
this is now,
the ever fleeting moment,
into past, present, future,
the making of lives and losses
the jump, the fall,
climbing vines into aether.

My dear, my love,
how shall you choose?

Skeleton keys that fit
like skullbones,
crying the most holy tears
to heaven.

So enchanted are we with the lock
so enamored our hearts to the door,
That oft our eyes cannot see
there’s more, and so much more.

The soul does not knock three times
the heart does not ring the bell,
The space does nothing to choose
who in there will come and dwell.

When it permeates through the walls
all locks and keys go astray,
It is said and known all along
that love will find a way.

Left ajar,
my heart.

Much like keys that fit,

* * * 

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

One Hour With Celia White

Published on Medium 

What a beautiful conversation with Celia White, poet, writer, librarian, educator and she read "Kali Yuga" and I start crying. This is one hour of history about life, writing, art, music and writing. She reads from her book "Letter" and speaks about the artistic scene as a whole.

Monday, October 5, 2015

You Make Me Beautiful [For Sir Muhammad Iqbal in response to “I Desire”

First published on Jaggerty 
[South Asian Lit Journal]

Your voice is that of millions
wandering, lost,
bedraggled and confused,
seeking peace and enlightenment
but from within.

Yet you seamlessly describe
the pure beat of thunder in your veins,
indigenous drums,
ancestral circles,
of smoke

Your breath is my own.

Thoughts that scatter
inside my skull,
you have written of them,
reaching into my heart
with open palm
behind my sternum,
you take one tip of finger
and tell me
what my own soul
already knows.

Dear Sir, you make me beautiful.

I am lost in your words,
unable to do anything
but melt
within the beauty
of the divine.

– For Sir Muhammad Iqbal  
[Shair-e-Mushriq, Poet of the East]
in response to “I Desire

Sunday, October 4, 2015

The Nature of Things

                                      First published on Rebelle Society

The great eye of heaven
hides behind clouds
not on purpose.

This is the nature of things,

Like leaves
helpless to their fate.

They adorn
the mighty oak
with beauteous wonder
tresses of hair
every hue imaginable

an Autumnal bridal gown

only to one day
be let loose
without warning,
arms outstretched,
wailing for one last embrace,
before flailing through the sky
tumbling within the fierce wind,
once recognizable,
once friendly,
once home

landing upon pastures
foreign to them
left in the wild of this world
to converse among blades of grass
and finding nothing
but incessant

And the morning dew
once refreshing
turned to frost
unplanned for,

and breath
turned to smoke
in the crisp cool dawn
once warm,

once loving.

And words
now fall flat
upon lips
that no longer yearn
for a kiss,
so utterly precious

and eyes
no longer view beauty
once divinely adored
by sight

and the heart hardens
to ego
and begins to close
when one ceases
the sun rising
just for them.

And it makes one wonder
if the mighty oak
feels any emotion at all.

For actions are louder than words,
silence shows disinterest,
and apology —
after repeated apology —
now means nearly

I told you this would happen.

You smiled and laughed
said “There’s no possible way”
as you stared at me,
staring at you,

and you liked that

and I smiled back
knowing the truth
yet to pass
my chest
my heart
trying not to

I smiled

because you needed me to be strong
and I was a pillar
like now
spitting out bits of blood and bone meal marrow
seeping from the tips of fingers
that write words
like you

but you threw me away
like some secondhand
thrift shop
used shoes

and it has taken me a long time
to accept this absurd existence
I have chosen for myself

but you threw me away

and I kneel under this dank, grey skyline
hovering upon the Eastern shore
palms raised
lined, in supplication.

These weary hands of mine
writing words such as this
to deaf ears,
to blind eyes,
to uncaring hearts,
to the bleeding mouths of those who suffer.

Yet, I rise
I am love,
I rise
I am free,
I rise
because I am

And I rise
like the sun,
and rise
like constellations,
and rise
like mountains echoing time
after time,
that the sky


You see,
you once saw,
like the others.

Yet, you threw me away.

Like seasons,
is the nature of things.

I have been letting you go
for months


Friday, October 2, 2015

West Seneca Art Society/Charles E. Burchfield Fall Art Exhibit

West Seneca Art Society
  Fall Art Exhibit
  Charles E. Burchfield Nature & Art Center
                    2001 Union Rd. West Seneca, NY 14224


October 9th 7-9 pm, show runs to November 5th. 

Artists of all genres, ages, backgrounds will be exhibiting artwork for enjoyment and sale. There will be food, snacks, wine, beverages. This exhibit includes a diverse array of people,  an evening filled with music, positive energy, visual stimulation and creativity in support of the arts in Western New York and Buffalo. 

For more information, contact West Seneca Art Society V.P. -  Virginia Koeppel

*My son William [West Seneca Art Society, WNY Book Arts,  UB Center for the Arts, is displaying two pieces, a glass mosaic and a still life both created with Susan Nowak, Director of Fine Arts at Bishop Timon-St.Jude.

Maureen Burns [Timon Communications] was so kind to start promoting this event below.]

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

The Sound of Moonlight

A collaboration between Susan Marie & Mari McDade 
First published on Poems & Poetry  

A whisper
the caress of a gentle breeze
on the nape of your neck.

The stillness
of the breath of night,
a lone bird in the distance,
calls to me,
this song.

Running along dew-damp grass,
I search for you
singing back a song of oneness,
though not of one.

Feet bare,
emerald blades brush my skin,
adding to this chorus,
a most glorious union,
a beacon of illumination,
rumbling ground,
thousands come to heed the call.

Our tribe has gathered once again.

The fireside smoke rises,
calling tired warriors back home.

 Autumn permeates the air.

What is above is below,
what is below is beside,
what is beside is beneath,
what is beneath is inside,
what is inside is the sound of the moonlight,

like the caress of a gentle breeze

on the nape
of your neck.