It’s funny how a family grows
in newly cutely ways.
my one of origin hurt me raw
tipping through the centuries.
the new family I’m creating now
is startling me anew
i have so much love around
a fresh purpose to pursue.
We’re broken and bruised,
battered from birth,
we were built so fundamentally wrong.
The world makes life so bloody hard.
Just give up trying to
create or belong.
You break my heart
with your wounded ways.
We’re not defined by our past.
Yet you’ve kept me stuck for five decades
with your sneers, your pokes,
my sad little un-started drafts.
Too right there: I get my kicks
when I sit on your shoulder,
sabotaging all that you ‘write’.
You’re far too old for all that hope
now in life you’ve reached
That’s enough! I’ve had an idea
about wounds and abuse and stuff.
If I begin to transform all of our pain
into fables strong and true,
you’ll lose your hold over my head
and my heart will take the reins.
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
Your grace goes free,
a gift to all:
in your lash, your smile,
we’re all enthralled.
Pic copyright: Lucien Milasan
my creative heart has been
beating but not seen,
patiently not known,
hoping, lying in wait
that one day, like this,
I would notice its pulse
and take heed of its sounds
listen to its beat,
see all its signs,
act on its guidance.
Create, at last,
what makes it sing.
A full-hearted swing
at life’s infinite joy.
(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/cuteimage)
you mess me about, afraid to commit,
and I let you get away with it.
I’m scared that if I pin you down
you’ll punish me by flying away.
So do I let you flit among my flowers,
skim the best of my summer blooms,
while deep in my roots I feel unrest
as I’m sapped of what keeps me whole?
Or do I insist you choose a stem to sit on
that won’t always bend to your whim,
and risk losing your custom for good –
though at least I won’t be short-changed?
I shrug and say it’s normal:
what’s so special about what I write?
I also kind of feel a fraud
‘cos it comes so naturally to me.
I just sit at the laptop and type,
without having to re-read back.
I know that what’s come out
is final, total, complete.
So, when people add me to writerly feeds
I wonder what they see in my words.
It’s as natural to me as breathing and dressing.
So where’s the speciality in that?