Samhain

 The veil is thinning

'Twixt sky above; earth below

Our lost ones draw near

Beyond human sight and touch

Memories again now live

Ronda R. Scott-Marak

© 31 October 2026

Desolate Reality

There is a difference between depression and hopelessness.

There is a gulf between loneliness and abandonment.  

There is no disagreement between rationality and knowing it is time to give up.

Giving up is not cowardice;

Giving in is not treacherous; it is a desolate reality.  

When everything has broken, crumbled, and given out, so does the light,
the meaning, the purpose behind perseverance.

That isn’t a call for medication or mediation; it isn’t a plea for validation;
it is an indication of desperation with nowhere to turn and no way to stop.  

Ronda R. Scott-Marak

© 25 October 2026

October Nears

The air is as crisp as freshly bitten apples; the tanginess of cider, the clarity of transmuting, ocean blues.

The leaves begin their transition to the graininess and colour of Bosc and russet pears; soon to crunch underfoot, gritty and crumbling, preparing to transform from vividly coloured heaps to brightly burning bonfire piles.

Corn mazes, hayrides, shelves of jewel-toned jam jars,  and pumpkin pie-spiced pies as everything.

Soon, costumes, cellophane-wrapped candies, and candlelit, carved squash faces will light the porches in an attempt to mimic the Harvest moon.

 

Ronda R. Scott-Marak

26 September 2026

The Mountain

What is the route to knowledge?

Do you dig your way through, carefully sifting, sorting,
and labelling details like an archaeologist?

Do you work your way around the edges, learning the views from all sides,
but never finding the meaty details in the centre?

Do you tunnel beneath, scrounging for bright veins of wisdom,
like searching for a specific bit of gold in a dragon’s lair?

Do you painfully clamber over the top, missing the minor clues,
seeing only the bumps and pitfalls in your path,
eager to reach the end of the book, the story, the sermon?

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
21 September 2026

(Written after Meditation in the Chapel this afternoon)

Vernal Equinox

English gardens and mown lawns,
The fresh scent of rainfall on fields and rocks,
Salt spray and green tea,
Clean rooms and sun-dried linens,
New growth under freshly turned earth,
Trees bud and robins’ calls.
Leaves wave and tulips bend,
Newborn lambs frolic,
Foals and calves dance,
On grassy fields, while bees flit amid the blooms,
Under new skies and new days.

 

Ronda R. Scott-Marak 
© 20 March 2026

Living

 

Is knowing when to ad-lib
— and when to follow the script.

It is knowing the times to enunciate
— and the best opportunities to scat.
To be able to feel
— the rhythm of the universe,
as well as knowing
— which chart or chord.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
©  20 August 2025

 

Imbolc

Wind gusting sideways
blowing litter widdershins across the paths;
flotsam and jetsam scattered all about
like rubble after adversity.

 

Doors swinging to and fro
slamming and squeaking in protest with the effort;
branches groaning 'gainst the squall
in opposition to the raging tempest.

 

Rain driving everything and everyone before it
leaving eddies in its wake;
soaking shoes, pavement and earth
leaking pseudo Spring under the doors.

 

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 1 February 2016