a mood is lippy on a cup of something crucial
a person’s choice of lip shows social preference
hear your red and you’re redolent with riches
touch your pink and you’re prior to other pinches
taste your lip and you’ll experience that fully
see your beaut and you’ll believe you are lovely
smell your grey and you’re grazing something truthful
listen to shade: you’ll touch your wounded core place
my mermaid soul fears the sea,
the depths from which she came,
but the time is now to tumble turn,
to dive, to lose, to gain
Just when I’m about to give up on a creative life,
things from nature remind me of who I am and what I’m here to do…
The pale, pert optimism of spring daffodils
that always come up, no matter what, each spring.
The rustle of breeze against branch, a shiver of nature
that brings goosebumps when I’m aligned with my truth.
And a sudden, surprising deer, stopping in its path to pause and stare:
An emblem of creative spirit come to visit.
To my younger self I gift
a sense of knowing I have a right to exist,
imperfect and scared as I am
it’s alright to be me.
To my younger self I gift
a trust that life gives as well as takes,
that the blows and hurts won’t destroy me,
but will make me who I am.
To my younger self I gift
a self-belief that’s humble as it’s confident,
that the words I eventually write
will soothe me and touch others.
To my younger self I gift
a pen that scribes my truth.
If I were a cloud I would love all my shapes,
shifting and wisping and forming with joy.
If I loved all my shapes I would welcome all change
and flow in harmony with the sky and the stars.
If I welcomed all change I’d feel freer to fly,
to carry aloft my dreams and ideas.
If I felt freer to fly I would grow my wings wide
and glide through the arc of a rainbow.
What message for me in this fleeting fragment of spring?
Street illuminations shift the softness of blossom
to the moodiness of night.
The pink-white petals cluster in midnight suspense
like candy floss clumps skewered through the dark.
I twizzle my blinds,
the streetlight dazzles my walls with slats
and what do I sense?
A springtime promise, all hopeful and pert,
an epitome of creative grace?
Or a reminder of potential soon to be lost,
a petal carpet of regret to embrace?
NaPoWrimo2019 Day 2: Resisting closure by ending on a question
Eye the world with wonder.
Envy beautiful things.
View others take that leap of faith
while you watch from the side-linings.
NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 1: Instruction Manual
Pic copyright: alphaspirit
Remember what it’s like to sew your heart:
when you feel alone, yet yearn for love.
Stress will charge your fears, your pulse,
you forget to attach to what’s above.
A sewn-up heart has self-righteous thoughts
of revenge and shame and guilt,
the threads of life tie you up in knots,
you forget the power of your patchwork quilt.
Remember what it’s like to open your heart,
when you’re a blanket of multi colour,
resplendent in your everyday weeds,
ready to clothe and soothe the other.
Be forever open to heal your hurts,
undo that stitch, untie that knot,
challenge the feel of being hemmed in.
Don’t let life be a chance forgot.
I’m done in. So tired.
Yet still I take on more.
Can’t say no to needy souls.
Leaving me broken.
Shamed, emotionally sore.
My life, I’m afraid, can’t unfold.
The pattern of stars in the sky above my head –
as I lie on my patio chairs, feeling the evening breeze –
is scattered and twinkly,
but not distinct.
I ask them for an answer.
The lights from planes on their way to
destinations far and wide, flicker
and flirt with the stars,
evidence that another flight took off OK.
I need to know my purpose, why I’m here,
and why I keep messing up my life.
I look to the stars for an answer.
What seems to be a plane
is a star that shines bright,
that is having its moment
in the firmament.
I pray for an answer.
I look away, look back,
The stars in my night sky,
above my patio,
have rearranged
into the shape of a heart.
My heart that I must follow.
inktuition 