Sentences refuse to form –
Words, though, bear pairing punch-packed phrases delicate unnervings
Fear grasps the wrist
stunts sentences – thoughts staccato emotions gagging Poetry loosens the grip bundles the mayhem spits it out – births breakthrough
(Image my own)
Why do you write poetry?
Impossible to ignore –
even though I’ve tucked it away there, between the chair and credenza – a life-sized story, waiting to be told.
As much as it compels me
to pay attention, I am repulsed – this is my life we’re talking about
And not just mine –
the tale weaves itself with tragic threads of others and what right do I have to expose that?
And yet, I don’t know
that I have the strength to squash it – this living breathing thing… wandering aimlessly about this house.
(Image my own)
She is young,
this artist-self celebrating discovery
He chastises enthusiasm,
this intellect-self, favours logic over emotions
I use disability as an excuse
Accept intellect’s restraints Ignore encouragement Refrain from submitting Halter progress
Youth has ambition
her paint spattered hands grasp at opportunity – her tender heart emits a joyful tune..
having abandoned ambition, is hard of hearing. (Art mine)
a shift of focus – tired of the clash of colours stimulation overload – my muse is leaning towards the nuance of black and white
A study of shadows
and shading and how light arouses the soul
Speak to me in subtleties
she whispers in tones suggestive of hidden depths; I am listening
And so I submerge myself
clear the palette of vibrant hues and take up the lowly pencil seek the promise in colourless world.
first appeared here August, 2020. Art mine) Colourless Expressions
I have ventured
into your atmosphere slipped my skin your skin and discovered a universe thoughts emotions beliefs blending into a physical dance of light and shadow nuances of colour delineating life
At our core
we are light leaning into mystery cellular interpretations of a symphony we cannot hear
mind altered we meld.
Melding first appeared here June, 2020. Image my own)
Not programmed to comply –
cannot tolerate oppression: a pressure cooker ready to explode
Do-gooders sit up
straight and smile encouragement: I slouch defiance
Don’t ask me to respect
that which is disrespectful – my fuse is short of that I’m certain
Don’t slot me;
leave me – creative inspiration is not lacking here
I’m a free agent
a incorrigible scamp – authority doesn’t scare me ’cause I’m beyond control.
, first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, June 2017. Found poem here. Image my own) That Kid
I dwell in mediocracy
where Larkspur takes a spotlight and sunsets enforce sleep
A background figure, I hide
behind mundane assertions, practice subtlety
Lies I tell myself, of course,
any reader knows – I decry normality, as passion is my way.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Coordinated by the curator of our local art gallery, the poetry circle partnered with a photographer to create
The Minimalist Eye. Yours truly has two poems featured in the project: Slanted Orange and Big Red.
To see the full exhibition, visit the virtual tour:
So fortunate to be part of a such a vibrant community. As a bonus, the collection has been published.
Maybe I just needed a new perspective –
like the famed Hanged Man of tarot – committed to some deep, internal need, I willed a horizontal shift; landed with intent.
Maybe it is not my legs that are disabled,
but a soul longing to escape the continual discord of perpetual motion, a never-ending to-do list of the success-driven persona.
Maybe there is a greater purpose for being
that is not encompassed by outer drive – a mysterious meaning that is revealed only in the quiet stillness in which I now dwell.
Maybe I have been called to a personal
pilgrimage – a Camino of sorts – a crusade of spirit designed to cleanse and enlighten – the journey is certainly arduous enough.
Maybe it is through acceptance, finally
having released a need to control, move, achieve, accomplish that I am able to embrace the true lessons of suffering.
Maybe this cocooning is an act of Grace
demanding surrender before the actual transformation occurs, and I will emerge, legless or not, winged and ready to soar.
Maybe, just maybe, this stripped down,
barren existence is not a penance for shameful living, but a desert crossing, offering re-alignment: hard-fought peace.
(Maybe first appeared here Feb. 2017. Image my own)
Winter defines this stage,
this page, night descending too early for my taste
If I catch a falling star,
can I shed the excess layers of this confinement
Follow animal impulses
to a sunnier clime, restore exuberance of noble youth?
Passion persists, intelligence
intact, just need a brighter angle from which to reveal it.
first appeared here January, 2019. Lighting Call Linking up with Reena’s Xploration challenge: light. I mage my own.)