NaPoWriMo 2018 day 25: remember to keep an open heart

 

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.

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NaPoWriMo 2018 day 22: a poem for stars

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.

 

NaPoWriMo 2018 day 8: the whispers of a tomb

Stand tall, stand true.

Find balance in what you do.

 My four diamond holes

to help find what you extol.

My three central blocks

to stay firm against life’s knocks.

The column at my core

to align with what you adore.

The security at my base,

to remind you to live with grace.

Tides come, tides go,

time shoots its arrows.

Stand true, stand tall.

One day you won’t be here at all.

 

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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