a poem for my flames of fear

 

On a good day I see in the flames

a dancing horse, swishing tail

head upright, ears aloft,

prancing to the heat of the fire,

soul alight with joy.

 

On a bad day I see in the flames

a devilish anger that burns down

all my hard work, a ghoulish glee

that turns my dreams to ash,

hope depleted, plans destroyed.

 

NaPoWriMo 2018 day 7: critic & creator

 

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

your twilight.

 

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.

pic credit:

NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 4: my garden of spirituality

 

It’s the quality and direction of light that tells me

of presence, of a beam, of something greater than me.

Like torchlight from an invisible source,

it pools between thick leaves, through autumn cloud,

illuminating the darkest part of my garden.

 

The new-grown laurels have taken root,

wildly, greenly, not caring they’re uneven, mismatched.

They huddle around the scraggy old wooden bench

with its rectangle feet set firmly in the shingle:

a bench with a view, that leaves you with a sore behind.

 

The cheeky red berries shine crimson in the sunshine of youth

amidst the demure and dappled undergrowth,

their cherry fire and beaded little heart in full-bloom denial

of any future state of wither or decay.

An so shines the purity of that insistent beam of light.

 

a poem to my creative blocks

 

my blocks pop up in colourful ways

sometimes when I least expect,

and often – when I’m pulled

by that crazy creative force,

that desire to put my words out there –

the opposite has to exist:

primed to put a stop to my course,

to cut me from my source.

 

the horizon may be dewy,

the breeze may be blowy

the potential stretching out

may be incredibly alluring,

and yet a part of me,

a stubborn and relentless saboteur

wants to stub out

the scary unknown.

 

what I’d like to do is

kick those blocks aside,

send them scattering

off the pier of fear,

and to open my future

to run wildly, wind in my hair,

trust at my feet, sun in my dreams,

and strength in my belief.

 

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And still I’m blocked…

inktuition and still I'm blocked

 

All the work I’ve done on myself:

the therapy, the healing,

the certificates I’ve gained,

the triumph of Masters degrees.

And still I’m blocked.

 

All the promises I’ve made,

to stay true to my talent,

seem to land on fertile turf,

yet remain fallow, dry, non-manifest.

And still I’m blocked.

 

All the years I’ve passed,

with fresh intentions each Jan

that fade to grey, nudging into Feb.

In March it’s as if they never began.

And still I’m blocked.

 

All the distractions I excitedly seek.

New garden: tick. Weekly weeding: tock.

Jobs to take my mind off the task,

decade after decade. That’s the shock.

And still I’m blocked.

 

All the futures I’ll never achieve:

what will be my hand-me-down glory?

A creative life chronically unlived?

Or trusting what’s for me won’t go past me?

 

Knowing all of this… and more.

And still I’m blocked.

 

(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/KROMKRATHOG)

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