The CalSouthern family of learners and graduates is a remarkably talented and wonderfully diverse group. Hailing from more than 45 countries, they are comprised of dedicated mental health practitioners, innovative business professionals and skilled attorneys. They are c-level executives, entrepreneurs, leaders in government, professional athletes and coaches, educators and tireless volunteers in their communities.
They are also extraordinarily creative. Members of the CalSouthern community are musicians, artists and writers of fiction and non-fiction. In this issue of the CalSouthern Sun, we highlight the creative work of Dionne Blaha, a 2014 graduate of the Bachelor of Arts in Psychology program.
Dionne started playing and working with words as soon as she could use a pencil. Today she reads Rumi, revels in inspirational quotes—and writes papers for her master’s program. She works in organizational development for Palomar Health in San Diego County, California. There, in Escondido, she lives happily with her writer-husband, Terry Spohn, and their animal friends. The author of The Singing Bird Will Come—Living with Love, Strength and Joy and a 2015 eBook titled A Beautiful Spine—Scoliosis Reversal and Freedom from Pain after Age 50, her poetry has been published numerous times in the San Diego Poetry Annual.
Please enjoy the following three poems by Dionne Blaha:
Next Thing You Know
Every day that something must get done is another life. It’s not just the early minutes at the top of each hour or the deaths of each exhalation, you think you know your next friend but you’re wrong. You receive someone else’s mail, an old flame Facebooks you, you’ve become a commodity famous as Campbell’s soup. Puncture the can, you’re so old nothing’s dripping out. Go back and Google mechanic. Get the car fixed, why don’t you, because any time, today or tomorrow, you’re going for a ride.
A Little of This
I’m waving goodbye to my little dreams who are jumping on the bus with sandwiches in bags. No more home-schooling for them.
By the end of the night when I’ve let them take over they might tell me great stories but I might be emailing the tax forms without my clothes on. I wake up with a big fat O on my forehead for ordinary.
All day despite their clamoring I’ve had to scratch my way out of the windowless house until the sun is at my dinner party and there’s no call for bloody marys.
Fly away little kids and come back when you know how to do the Rubik’s cube how to win at Solitaire how to burn breakfast with two sticks and where to show me the hidden monasteries in our little town.
You look across and before the trees for some reason just now you can see the air vibrating A patch quivering like something attractive to itself, giddy, there all along. When the animals talk and you can’t quite hear the words but you know what they’re saying— When one of those trees falls and the grief doesn’t kill you and next year you’ll find three of its seedlings in your yard— and time shortens you into death but lengthens with your wakeful breath, and you and your friend go running down the path laughing— this is the music you write on the page that ages at the edges burns black in the sun flecks to the earth dust to minerals back onto the cheeks of your face
you’re not too young you’re not too old you can do anything