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Archive for October, 2025

Risk and Play: Flirting with the Unknown
October 23
5-7 p.m. mountain time
hosted by Kripalu
Zoom, recorded
$29

As part of Kripalu’s Fourth Annual Fall Writing Program, Rosemerry joins other esteemed writers Julia Cameron, Asif Ullah, Eric Maisel, and many more. The overall theme: Imagine New Worlds: Hope, Transformation and Exploration. REGISTER HERE

Grace in Transition: Poetry as a bridge between the everyday & the sacred
Thursdays, October 30-Nov. 13

!!!!(Note: For those attending in the US: sessions will be 1-3 MT on 10/30 and 12- 2 pm MT on 11/6 and 11/13. This is due to our clock change happening a week after Europe. Time will be 7-9 p.m. in Ireland)
hosted by The Sanctuary in Ireland
Zoom, recorded
€75 (around $87)

Reading and writing poems can be a transformative art that helps us weave together the gritty particulars of our daily lives and the ethereal truths we glimpse in our spiritual practices. For more information or to register visit here

Facing Our Deaths, Living with Love:
A heart-opening evening of song, practicalities, and poetry
with
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer & Sherry Richert Belul
Nov. 3, 5:30-7:30 p.m. mountain time
Sliding Scale ($10-$30)
Zoom, recorded

Let’s talk about things that matter. In a world full of noise and distraction, it can be rare that we pause for a deeper conversation about what it means to be human—about love, loss, and legacy. Tickets are sliding scale. Program will be recorded and available to all who register. To register or for more info, visit here

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The Mystery of Grief: Writing into the Loss
With Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
On Zoom, hosted by Evermore
Wednesday, November 5, 5-7 p.m. M.T.

When we lose loved ones, writing can be a powerful tool for helping us remember them, helping us re-encounter the world without them, and helping us re-know ourselves as the loss transforms us. To register, visit here.

You Belong Here: A poetry playshop
November 10 5-7 p.m. mountain time
hosted by The Raft
zoom, recorded
sliding scale

What does it mean to trust that we belong? Belong to the world? Belong here at all? Belong to each other? When we feel we belong, we can bring our full-throated, open-hearted selves to a moment. But what is at stake when we feel as if we don’t belong? And what do we turn to then? To register or for more info, visit here.

Wrestling with Praise: Finding Joy and Devotion Even When It Seems Unlikely
December 4-5
Zoom
$175

Please join Rosemerry and Courage & Renewal facilitator Marcia Eames-Sheavly for a one-and-a-half-day contemplative poetry writing retreat as we explore through reflection and writing the praise that can emerge when we are truthful, connected and open. Limited registration. For more information and to register, visit here

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His hair is white now and hers
streaked with gray. Their skin,
once taut and smooth now loosened.
But their hands still fit the other’s,
the light weight so familiar,
infused with a tenderness
that has deepened over decades.
They are made now of over ten thousand
shared dinners, some in candlelight,
some with chaos. They are made now
of over ten thousand mornings
waking together with their fingers entwined.
Made of mountains they’ve hiked
and trails they’ve skied and gardens
they’ve grown and children they’ve raised
and lost and continue to love.
There is a quiet between them now
that holds them in a way words cannot,
a silence they share that is theirs.
With a gesture, they invite each other
to share the changing leaves, the heron
in flight, the pleasing sour scent
of the garden as it dies. They know
that to share the ephemeral
is one of the greatest gifts we are given.
Tonight they share the rose as dusk fades to dark.
Share the softening of their own aging hearts.
She puts her hand into his, and he receives it.
There are vows, yes, but now
they share what can never be spoken.  
 

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One Too Late

 
only after the blaze
has leapt its stone ring
procuring  a bucket of water
 

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One Peaceful

deep currents of citizens
moving through streets—
tide of great change

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for Vivian
 
Just today, you asked me
to hold the front door open,
your own hands too full
with a peach smoothie,
a cup of tea, your backpack
and dance bag and lunch box.
It gave me such joy,
this small act of service,
though now I also see it
as practice in letting you go.
I followed you out the door
into the frost-limned world,
yellow leaves falling before
the sun had yet risen.
It would be easy to forget
this moment with you.
We didn’t even pause
to enjoy it, just inhaled
the chill morning air,
both of us mumbling
how glorious it was
before you walked to the car
and I walked back inside.
Now, I see they’re everything,
these slim moments we share,
for a day is slim and a
year is slim, and soon your whole
childhood will also seem
slim. I hold them to me
like treasure, these slender
chapters, charged as they are
with beauty, hold them to me
even as I practice letting you go.

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I hold a sunflower in my heart,
not in golden bloom, but filled
with small, dry seeds,
a desiccated husk of a disk, brittle
and brown. I hold it here
as a reminder some gifts
look unwanted at first.
I remember the autumn afternoon
I went to pull the dead remains
from the garden, then watched
as the Stellar’s jays landed
atop the tall dark stalks
and feasted. So I let the row
stand instead of clearing it away.
In my attempts to remove
what seemed no longer useful,
I almost missed this chance
to see the Stellar’s Jays balance
on the tips of the plants,
their bodies a blue exultation of wing.
What else have I tried to clear
from my heart too soon? How
easy to miss what is still nourishing.
Out my window, the jays gather
at the banquet of what is dead.
I am learning the wisdom of holding.
 

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Two Radiances


 
hours ago
I lit a golden candlestick
now only honey-scented space—
 
years since you’re gone
everywhere I go,
the perfume of you—

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All the Tears

 
 
As I cry chopping onions,
I imagine the onions
cry for me, too, and
with each slice, they
wonder when I will ever
peel off all these layers I’ve
been adding in the name
of growth. When I add
the onions to the pan,
they become more clear.
You can do it, too,
they seem to say.  
Let the world open you
and weep with the gift
of giving yourself away.
 

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teaching our voices
to kneel to each other—
such a genuine way to listen

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Not Alone

Through the throng
and past the chatter
we slipped into a small
blue sitting room
and there at the edge
of the chaos, she told me
what the doctor said.
The world became
whirlpool, no shore
in sight, and
we met in a perfect
stillness, holding
to each other, our
friendship like driftwood,
no way to steer, but
for that moment, we
floated, floated!  
no small thing as
all around us
uncertainty crested
and surged and
crashed and swirled.

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