Why Poetry?

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?



Living with the Unwritten

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)

Too Old?

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..

…but age,
having abandoned ambition,
is hard of hearing.

(Art mine)

Colourless Expressions

Consciousness commands
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.

(Colourless Expressions first appeared here August, 2020. Art mine)

Melding

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

Compassion extended
mind altered
we meld.

(Melding first appeared here June, 2020. Image my own)

That Kid

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.

(That Kid, first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, June 2017. Found poem here. Image my own)

The Minimalist Eye Project

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

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)

Lighting Call

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.

(Lighting Call first appeared here January, 2019.
Linking up with Reena’s Xploration challenge: light. I
mage my own.)