my dad used to tell me about love
not to rush into it
to take your time
"be sure before you jump into it, son"

three years later
i see he wasn't just a hater
he speaks wise words
i should listen more often

i should do a lot of things
i shouldn't cling
i shouldn't cry
should i?
i should.

but i can't.

What I like about my 40’s is I’ve figured out what I like and don’t like.

I unapologetically spend my time the way I want to.  I’ve shed the restraints of others’ expectations.

Because I feel the limits of my energy, I don’t waste my time.

I’ve stepped away from unworthy people. My circle is smaller but, oh, so much better.

On a cloud of gratitude and hard-earned perspective, I float above the trivial.

In my 40’s, I’ve learned that by living for myself—by making my welfare the priority—I can patiently and lovingly show up for others.  

Now I understand, mothering does not have to be an all-consuming martyrdom.

Now I know I cannot fix anyone but myself. Gone is the  weight of other peoples’ issues, shrugged off my shoulders like a heavy winter coat on a warm Spring day.

I am free of the stress caused by the illusion of being in control.  

In my 40’s, I slow down more often. I relish simple pleasures like a nap, a good sale, a bite of a friend’s dessert.

I notice more—the  birds, the changing colors in the sky, the sparkling sound of a loved one’s laughter.

I’m comfortable in my 40’s.

I feel I have arrived.

I feel peace.

I see more beauty than ever before
in this world and myself.  

© 2025 SincerelyJoanWrites. All rights reserved.

"The hardest fight is the one inside you."
Not the blade nor the beast,
not the curse in the woods,
but the voice that whispers
when all else is still.

The night is loud with silence,
and the mirror knows your name.
He carries his mother’s magic,
but it’s his shadow he cannot tame.

Exertion has created a map at the back of her hands.
Just like abrasion, when water gently shapes rocks.
She has untied knot after knot.

Her hands carrying eternities of wisdom.

Commoners' indignant?
Youth disinherited?
Ha. Nay.

Intellectuals disrespected.
Visionaries neglected.
Aye.

Yous who don't learn,
Refusin' to see eye-to-eye.
You slight genius, Truth.
Ay;

Afraid to even say hi -
Much less engage in honest, forthright conversation.
Rely on your superstitious,
Your hope is to pray
For ignorance like arrogance be your prey.

Lambs what be foul predators
Fat on the blood of their own ewes.
Singin',

"We know not what we do!
We know not what we do!"

Yet, you do so willfully.

Soon-to-be-nothings;
Absence, as nothingness, will be your eternity.

For the unworthy are rejected, universally.

She keeps misery on her side,
Time and again her wits break a tide.
In prairie fields her mind runs;
With mindful and curious puns.

There she goes skimming through
For something uncalled but yet true.
Her eyes, rolling up and down,
Wearing dark circles like a crown.

Wonders and questions here and there;
Their answers dipped in sweet éclair.
She savors each flavor whole,
With no curiosity to pull a toll.

In Euphoria she goes beyond the skyline
Curious and ecstatic, a feminine Feline.

Your word is a lamp for my feet and a light for my path.
The path to withstand my evil’s desired wrath.

Lead me by your truth and teach me,
Strike me deep in my heart, Jesus I can be.
For you are the God who saves me,
Who bloomed a fruit in my worthless tree.

All day long I put my hope in you.
You’re the God, who showed me what’s true.
For he made everything such a beauty,
Though as for me, I am poor and needy,
but the lord is thinking about me right now.”
And he will guide me, even if I don’t know how.

The lord is my shepherd; I have everything I need.
He is the only one, who can make me succeed!

For I sin in my earthly routine,
Purify me from my sins, and I will be clean;
wash me, and I will be whiter than snow,
Make me pure, as I live and show.

How could I be afraid to grow?
For he orders his angels to protect you wherever you go.

Strung out nicotine
fingers test the water,
pointing
the desert.

counter melodies
rot
in graveyards of tone.

a face the shape of
a rock
beat water forth
with a stick.
a face that would
stutteringly part
a sea.

he dreamed the
burning bush
got wisdom from the mountain.
diminished chords
when the tablet
broke.

They called her child,
yet the stars bent down to listen
when she spoke.

She was born
with galaxies behind her eyelids,
ash of ancient moons
in the crescent of her palms.

In classrooms,
she learned nothing new—
only watched
as the world caught up
to what her marrow already knew.

She stitched silence
into her sentences,
wore grief like pearls
strung along the collarbone of time.

Rain would hush for her,
mirrors would blink twice,
and clocks sometimes refused
to tick in her presence.

She moved
like someone who remembered
being fire
before flesh.

And when the grown-ups
chuckled at her wisdom,
she simply smiled—
a soft, secret smile
like she’d seen their ghosts
and offered them tea.

While she was reciting her poem
she wrote just minutes ago,
she spilled a great
piece of wisdom,

purely accidental of course,
as they are from those
who seem to conjure wisdom
from the air they breathe,
or from mere daily observation.

She poured it onto the whole electric scene
like hot cocoa in a child's winter dream.

Some gulped it, some were aware of it,
some glossed over it, some picked it up
and set it back free again,
some took it in their hands and stomped on it,
vaguely afraid of it.

But most just stared right back
at this wisdom.
No doubt,
the one passed down,
from the great minds
before her,

This invisible line
threaded together
trying to weave itself
back into human synapse
every hundred years,
shouting to be recognized
once more,
but stuck  
chained to the
shelves of history
and soft breathe,

that is until someone
plucks it from the
great landscape of silence,
another entry point,
from which she had
undoubtedly  
terrained.