Poetry in Motion

There is a season for everything

and a time for every purpose.

In this season of flashing flowers

flaunted by every bush and tree;

bees busily busking at blossoms;

as daylight stretches the hours

and diminishes

this hemisphere’s dark;

it’s a strange discord to be

in want.

Yet, I have not found words

to express the longing

for a settled love;

hope for a future that peers decades

ahead with life abundant

and hope fledging,

like a bluebird aloft.

And perhaps because I cannot

find the words, the longing has

migrated to my restless feet.

The bouncing beats of an

earlier time, brassy and innocent,

I dive into the swing-out

and attempt to surrender

my single-minded way,

the narrow view.

Oh, let the poetry live in the way

our hands link,

in the focused attention,

moving to the swelling saxophone

and the clear clarinet.

Let the bass line move us past

feeling burdened and break open

vibrant joy, motion meant

to love and serve.

To risk everything.

Because every day

is the season for loving.

Every true poem is born

from our motion.

©️Laurie Lynn Newman


Birthday Dance

The weekly social dance

in the local community hall

includes a time to be recognized

when you celebrate a birthday

or other special event.

The whole group makes a big circle

and claps to the song.

People with birthdays

stand in the center while

the music plays.

During the song, dancers come

to “steal” the partner

so that it is one long chain

of partners, dancing with

variety, playfulness,

zest and fun.

This week was my turn

to dance in the center.

Twirling, bending, snapping,

stomping, laughing,

we threw ourselves into the dance.

I never knew when

or who the next partner would be.

I was immersed in motion

and surprise.

There was nothing to be done

but to surrender to the present,

and the joy of it.

©️Laurie Lynn Newman

Everything Holy

Soft light leaking through blinds;

the dream that left you as you woke,

but promised sweet contentment;

coffee beans with ebony gleam;

moments of quiet to sip coffee,

steam caressing your face;

white upon white: unfurled tree-petals against the cloudy sky;

this moment’s breath,

these are holy things when we

allow gratitude to bloom in us.

The gnawing wish, nagging worry–

these, too, are holy,

if we let them propel us to

kind action.

©️Laurie Lynn Newman


The news is bleak

and the outlook dim

so that the gray curtain of rain

beating down on the pavement

can make you feel as though

it’s just another day

that must be


Here is an antidote to

the easy ennui:

Look very closely

at the stranger next to you,

and the petal that quivers

with the water-drop pearl.

Listen to the child who

will thrive with your interest

and savor the sweetness of

a cool cup of water,

and then, let kindness

brim in your smile,

your soft gaze and


©️Laurie Lynn Newman


When I push hard, you

may pull away.

When I fail to keep a firm frame,

the energy between us

spills away.

When I anticipate the next step,

you lose the possibility to lead.

When I turn my head away,

and fail to look and listen

we lose that cord of connection.

When you fail to look and listen,

we may wind up on the wrong foot

or turned the wrong way

and laughing a little at ourselves.

On the dance floor, and off,

the best happens when

we are present, in that moment,

in the music and the bounce

of the beat, listening

and moving through it without

even knowing what

will come next.

©️Laurie Lynn Newman


Kiss, kick, click and cuff

trick, tryst, trip and tough,

treadle, tie and tip,

syntax, syllable, slip.

Words thread through

the golden needle of thought

to build, bond and banter,

needle weaving seam to seam

experience and matter.

Pixel, tweak and twilight,

silver, swish and swing.

There is an elegant music

of words, the way they lilt and sing.

Peevish, pert and playful,

stolid, sassy, sting.

Find your words today.

Find the fun in anything.

©️Laurie Lynn Newman


“Empty” is a lonely word.

Even as it brushes through the mind

it creates a small crater in the belly

for sad feelings to fall into.

“Empty” is the taste of dry, unseasoned rice cake,

the echo of solo, slow, footsteps in a vast cavern,

the scent of your husband’s aftershave after he’s left for good.

“Empty” is what we avoid as we fill

the hungry mind with vivid images,

the I.V. of earbuds connecting us

to the worldwide web.

“Empty ” is the hollowed out

heart in the midst of loss

and pain.

Hollowed-out may become hallowed

though, and empty space,

makes room for need.

©️Laurie Lynn Newman