my mermaid soul

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

a poem for uplifting things

 

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.

 

NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 9: write a list of things

stars in disguise

The melancholy moon, with a

bite out of its side,

does a smiley for the stars

surrounding.

The constellated night jewels

catch my breath,

lining up for their sightly

performance.

Minor. Major.

Who cares what key

they play their twinkly

chords in.

Their well-placed face,

their bling, their show,

will make the dark more

bearable.

Yet the brightest one

I only have eyes for:

It squeezes my heart’s

accordion.

For Day Two of NaPoWriMo: a poem about stars

the wall around her heart

It began with bricks, I guess,

built from the abuse above.

The big-smile baby knew no more,

no less. But she had no floor

or roof or wall, her

boundaries spliced,

her ego nil.

Her cement did set quite early.

It took years to even see that.

Dreams of locks not working

haunt the trusting times.

The little girl got trapped

with owning, booing crap.

To escape takes more than hair.

Say ‘boo’ to the witch that’s there.

This poem is number 24 in a month’s worth of poems for NaPoWriMo.

Inspired by today’s theme of masonry, mine is a Jung-inspired take on Rapunzel.

A poem by an abused yellow ribbon

I’m a yellow ribbon, a strip of citrine satin.

I have to stay in place or something bad will happen.

My favourite shape on earth is the cutest of all bows.

But woe betide my fate if I slip or make a show.

I’m always a close match for my Era’s underwear.

Any sense of contrast prompts her mother’s evil stare.

She ties me tight with fingers that feel they’re full of hate.

Era sits so calmly still, afraid to aggravate

the rage that simmers low in her mother’s uptight jaw,

prone to bubble up and spout its vengeful, spiteful law.

I’m meant to know my place, not venturing round or out.

To the rules of hair-braid ribbons, I’m perfectly devout.

If I ever dare to sin, end up all a-tangle,

I hate to feel mom’s wrath, and Era in a wrangle.

My satin is not meant to be pulled with cruel intent,

but my dangling yellow threads cause heated argument.

I know I am to blame for a temporary lapse of hold.

My lack of self-control’s bound to cause a slapping scold.

If I had stayed done up, Era’s tears might cower inside.

But that witch of a mother? She’s always time to chide.

I’d like to wrap my softness around my Era’s cheek

But she’s stinging from the slap. She dare not make a squeak.

In Era’s inner world, I guess she’s a rainbow child.

I wish instead of blows I could be her source of smiles.

A writer’s poem for her blankie

You’re my big swathe of cuddle,

what I missed as a babe.

You’ve cossetted me through

the cool and the macabre.

When the snow’s outside

you’re an obvious choice.

You’re generous, holding,

you’re the thing I rejoice.

But you transcend all seasons

especially in spring.

You let me feel safe

when my words are growing.

How could I write

so much brave raw stuff

without my cuddly cocoon

and knowing I am enough.