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Conscious Poetry: Iceland’s Bait

Conscious Poetry

Conscious Poetry: Iceland’s Bait


President Olafur Ragnar Grimsson,

master angler,

envisioned us back to our Viking roots.

We bought it hook, line and sinker,

even the promise of Northern Lights.

A niece, a daughter, then spouse and I traveled

Keflavik International’s road to and fro,

at different times, our bread crumbs

connected by mere months,

kronar spilling from all pockets.

TravelZoo dangled one deal, first caught by

London’s capable Fleetway.

Lured by cheap flights, no hotel fees,

and zero expectations of gratuities,

we voyaged, laden with rain gear, snow gear, ice gear.

Sunday’s flea market suffered cheap

foreign trinkets, except for pricey sterling silver rings,

a mismatch and mockery of the bargain bazaar.

But sampling of Christmas cakes, jellies and rustic breads

moved my fingers from mouth to purse,

furnishing my hotel room in diminishing quantities for days.

Blessed with forty-degrees and dry February daylight,

we leaned into gale forces and wind waded towards

magnificent Harpa.

 Automatic doors sucked us inside while

the younger set stayed outside to play in it, opening their

coats, daring to be kites.

We gleefully watched until Eliasson’s design demanded our attention,

not upset to part from the harbor’s craned sky.

Preferring twice the elbows length to days gone by,

we chose Oddsson’s private room amidst millennials in open baths and bunks.

Still, an arm and a leg remained ours as we soaked up their energy to

capture the new time zone’s distant midnight.

    Surrounded by yogis who posed, too, as front-desk workers,

I breathed in their wisdom in the free classes, relaxing into my vacation.

Into my mouth went marvelous tuna bites, complements

of Kopar’s chef.  Rustik’s waitresses more directly

fished our tips with a jar lined with coins and a slogan of

   “help us fulfill our dreams of tan lines”.

That they had done their language homework and want longer,

warmer days NOW is not lost on us, and we add our coined wishes,

hoping, of course, they come to Miami.

Geologically informed docents, a man-made glacier

tunnel, and gracious hosts, made for a spectacular tale!

Feeling like I caught the big one, but not enough,

I must return in the other season.

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Marie Higgins is an author and teacher of holistic practices, including meditation and spiritual journaling. She educates individuals on how holistic practices can lead to a simpler life: a way of life that says spirit first (listen to the heart); second, take care of self (listen to the body), and then give back to the world. Her debut nonfiction piece, Sprouting Spiritual Growth, a Memoir and a Guide to Spiritual Journaling, is an inspirational self-help book. It includes ten chapters which provide a guide to get to the truth and beauty of simple everyday living. Prompts for spiritual journaling may also be found at

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