This current disconnect leaves me toe-tapping restless;
see, disease has commandeered my operating system,
and it’d be safe to say, if my body was an elevator
then it never really reaches any floor, and the state
of my alignment leaves me stumbling and ungrounded.
So staying put and writing is about the best I can do –
dVerse that makes me awfully appreciative of you!
(dVerse is celebrating 7 years with a call for a septet – a poem of 7 lines, or stanzas of 7 lines. Check them out!)
Suggestion of blue
framed by barren, hopeful branches
underscored by coniferous tops
fronted by yellow-green optimism
and a floor of brilliant new growth
as filtered through metallic screen
and black-framed windowsill
focus interpreted by progressive
lenses of the one confined inside
perspective horizontal.
Listen up!
My words, like children,
need tending to, codling
I can’t just go all willy nilly and let them run amuck
although
they are liking the idea
and what’s that knocking at my door
strange ideas….
oh, this will never do –
I keep a tight ship here –
order and perfection
those are my mottos
the children are getting out of hand
best banish them to the basement
until they calm down, but wait…
there’s sawdust
and garbage down here
(how could I have been so reckless)
Really, I wasn’t expecting all this commotion
and there’s the door again –
Oh dear! Â Just as I feared –
the church ladies are here
and any moment they’ll
start sermonizing
and I’ll feel guilty
for having
let the children
loose
for
having
entertained
imperfect thoughts
for…
What the hell!
I’m an artist not a babysitter! Â Why am I worrying about judgment from a bunch of prudish old ideas about how poetry should be executed? Â I’m in charge here, right?
Children, gather round
I’ve got some tidbits –
snack-sized morsels of ideas
for us to nibble on –
we need to start a rebellion.
(Today’s challenge is to rebel.)
I need a sponge
all purpose
barely poetic
or a conduit to make sense of tunes
liberating articulation
familiar
contrived
warmed by night
untouched by honey
Locked images
accomplished phrases
written here
(Not sure this makes any sense but today’s challenge is to take a poem and respond to each line (separately and backwards) to create a new poem. Â This poem arises from the work of David Stones, “Upon This Page”, found in his book of poems: Â Infinite Sequels.
sometimes
when I write
I eat – it’s my way
of stopping
the emotions
from spewing
all over the page
sometimes
when I eat
and my emotions
are numbed
momentarily
my inspiration
dries up
pardon me
if I appear
a little neurotic
but I need
to find a solution
for this eating
writing problem
A dear friend of mine passed away recently. She was a potter, and the gifts of her creations fill my home. This poem by Jazz J is as exquisitely crafted as Nadine’s works. I share it with you today to honour both women.
March 16, 2018. This poem emerged while studying Zen poets – mostly male, but one female poet made the syllabus.  Otagaki Rengetsu (1791–1875) became a Japanese Buddhist nun and one of the country’s most respected female artists – combining her poetry, calligraphy, and pottery.  She learned from Kyoto potters and decorated her rough and rugged bowls, cups, and other vessels with her poetry, either painted on or scored into the clay in flowing calligraphy. Orders from tea masters and others kept her very busy. This collage of found images shows both her pottery and calligraphy styles.
An edited version of “The Spirit of Horses” has been posted on One Woman’s Day blog, a project of the Story Circle Network.
Thank you to Linda Hoye for accepting this piece.
This is pen is far too vociferous,
illuminates the disabled rage,
dismissing my concerns, as if
outgoing messages are company
for its dispassionate agenda.
No privacy for ailing, sleeping,
I would physically eject the offending
appendage, but cannot bear reopening
of wounds, recognizing the sins are
mine, no matter how unintentional.
Words can be a trap, take on a beat
of their own, history rearing on page,
leaving me raw-nerved, reeling, their
thoughtlessness a venomous refusal
to remain a victim – I am inflamed.
How to banish the thoughts smouldering
like a cigarette, daring me to inhale,
choke on my own toxicity; I must expunge
the intrusion, recall this maddening vow
to create; withdraw to the safety of illness
shuttered away from the crowd, a blue
silence warming this frozen heart –
maybe, I’ll write a note and leave it
on the dashboard, command the pen
and its itinerary to leave me alone.
(Image: hellenmasido.wordpress.com)
If only life were a resort –
catered to meals, bed maids
who shuffle out of sight so as
to not disturb the illusion
that life is magical, comfort
a finger snap away; I’d refrain
from interaction, recognizing
celebrity amidst the guests –
imagine the surprise if one
should notice me: this fragile
ego pressured by the praise
would gush volumes, convince
me of genuine interest, ignore
glazed eyes, fail to appreciate
the bombs of emotion spewing
from my war-tattered mouth –
insights always come too late
to save me: my words, like drugs,
an excessive expense; my soul,
undervalued, strewn across
computer screens; I am Paris Hilton
regretting the exposure, trying to
keep afloat in a sea of superstitious
idiosyncrasies – an artist’s bane –
an acrobat, needing to balance
performance with observation,
resorting to bouts of self-
deprivation – no vacation here.
(Image: www.extravaganzi.com)
Creativity –
eight-legged predator –
invades the decks
of my listing mind,
reproducing rapidly.
Her generous,
bejewelled appendages
skittering beneath
my plastic-boned
Caucasian frailty.
I hesitate –
friend or foe?
Should I trample
crush this invasion,
or surrender…
risk madness?
We are ocean –
bound, shoreless
prefer interior spaces
wary of open vistas
equally vulnerable
collapsible
Skittish
evaders
intent on
escape
future
uncertain…
I flee
creativity’s
lair – enter
into darker
passages
Destiny –
creativity’s cousin –
awaits, tail raised
in venomous arc –
dances a warning
does not
strike
body
glowing
phosphorus
green,
melts into
swirling,
flourescent
particles of
Kundalini
rising.
(Image: fineartamerica.com)
One Woman's Quest 