the conflict of lonely and alone

being alone is a heart-opening thing

and the solitary self comes alive when alone,

yet the yearning of lonely brings bitter-sweet tears

that fall on a cheek with a splash and a sting.

 

the bitter turns sweet when a spine feels the comb

of fingertips intent on opening the heart,

yet the yearning of lonely brings tears for fears,

and that solitary self plays a part.

 

My response to day 14 of NaPoWriMo 2016: write a san san

my fortune cookie poem

“True success is love, not power.”

 

Power is so, well, potent:

manipulating, cajoling, forcing

one’s way to success.

Love seems weak, in the shade

of Power’s dazzling beams.

Softer, more passive, waiting.

Love seems vague, elusive,

not out to be grabbed or hurried.

Power can be earned.

Love has to be given.

Power is impatient.

Love is empathic, considered, kind.

And what does success mean anyway?

Can one love without power,

and be powerful without love?

My response to Day 13 of NaPoWriMo: write a poem from a fortune cookie

my forgotten blossom

inktuition blossom

They say the darkest hour is just before you wake,

and so with my front-garden tree:

just when I thought the fragile branches

had succumbed to the fiercest April showers

it blossomed so sweetly and suddenly,

reminding me, perhaps, that life truly goes on,

through seconds, minutes, and finite hours.

My response to Day 8 of NaPoWriMo 2016: write about a flower

a tritina for my enigmatic muse

You fragrance the warmth that resides in my heart.

Your heat is implicit in my aromatic words,

and yet consistency’s missed from your promised bouquet.

 

I dream of wild lily to spice your bouquet.

I pray for pale rose to prod my yearning heart

into blooming, creating a garden of words.

 

You hide in the trees, whispering the words

I need to capture and show in a scented bouquet.

Speak louder, please: help me speak from my heart.

 

Let me express my heart in a bouquet of ardent words.

 

My response to Day 7 of NaPoWriMo 2016: write a tritina

my gruelling garden

inktuition gruelling garden

my garden of eighty feet

is meant to be so sweet

but instead it feels a foul:

an annual source of scowl.

 

those genetic green-ish thumbs

missed me this time round.

who cares about the lawn?

mowing is such a big yawn.

 

tempted to tarmac over

the clumps of turf and clover

so all that’s left is space

for me to contemplate

 

all that I would miss

from a greenery so big.

is it time to sort some turf:

grant my backyard a rebirth?

 

My response to Day 5 of NaPoWriMo 2016: meant to be a poem about a garden rarity. Turned into a rant about a garden monstrosity.

a poem for joyless january

The sparkle bursts after you appear:

down comes the twinkle, replaced by dreary

nights of dark, of twisted hope, as

resolutions hit a slippery slope.

 

You’re endless, you’re mean, you bite

with cold, your grey obscures my light.

We have to endure you first, lest we forget,

the year looms ahead, as if a threat.

 

You bully the new year into winter submission

cowing my dreams and my fresh new ambition.

My door stays shut, the scratch of frost

makes my windows ache. My whole being feels lost.

 

My response to the Day Four prompt in NaPoWriMo: write a poem about the cruellest month