A poem pleading for the right to journal privately – at whatever age

Posted on by inktuition
Reply

My response to recent reports that a mother shared her five-year-old daughter’s journal online (fearing that she was sharing sad thoughts with paper, rather than her mother) is this:

My diary was always mine, unless spying eyes stole

my secret-est thoughts from the heart,

or spied my flaws, my dreams, my holes.

 I always write to heal, never to share or flaunt

my shadow stuff that’s too far too delicate

to bring to public taunt.

I’ve written daily words from at least the age of nine

from the clothes of Charlie’s Angels

to the depths of Freud and Klein.

So spying on a little girl’s words leaves me frozen with self-doubt.

I can only think of one grown person

whose probing left my craft in drought.

So as I tense for the critic, hoping for the praise

that moment of potential brilliance

gets lost in a fearful malaise.

So, mothers, for creativity’s sake, don’t censor your girl’s every move.

Leave her to find her voice,

through pen and page her groove.

A poem by an abused yellow ribbon

Posted on by inktuition
1

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 poem for a happy tear

Posted on by inktuition
Reply

My girl always checks

for tear-stained flecks

on my middle-aged cheeks.

They don’t play hide and seek,

because those tears that fall

don’t make me feel small.

They’re not drops of doom

on a melancholy costume.

There are two types of tears:

one regrets time; one gains years.

The first cries for loss of self,

the second cheers for spiritual wealth.

So when I see my little girl swim,

my happy tears fill to the brim,

because she’s doing what she came here to do.

So I leave bitter tears for others to rue.

Spirit in the sky (silent retreat – day three)

Posted on by inktuition
Reply

Isn’t it the way?

When you look for answers within

the real world reflects

the truth that’s held therein.

Just tuning in to nature

hearing chirps of nearby birds,

admiring springtime blooms –

then clouds leave me lost for words.

inktuition angel wings

 As if to show some hidden depths –

something intoxicatingly amazing –

the clouds command the pre-dusk sky

and stretch their angel wings.

inktuition spirit in the sky Then strips of spirit send their light

to the curious land of open hearts.

The dignity of cloud and field and sky

make me in awe to be a part.

A poem for the elusive brown bunnies (silent retreat – day two)

Posted on by inktuition
Reply

I’m sure they’re teasing me

as they chase across green

always in twos, hoppity hop.

The silence for me has been non-stop.

The scampering brown bunnies

think it’s terribly funny

to let me think I can reach them.

The silence has yet to reveal its gems.

It’s my will against theirs,

and they’re faster then hares.

All I’ve seen so far is the fluff of their tails.

The silence resolutely maintains its veil.

A poem: on silent retreat – day one

Posted on by inktuition
Reply

I was told to shut up as soon as I could talk,

so finding my voice has been tough.

There was never space to have my own thoughts

Never mind express what I love.

Now I’ve chosen to close myself from the world

and turn much deeper within.

A few days in silence, what will unfurl?

At least a break from my daily din.

What will I find, when my ego’s been stripped,

when I read from my sacred scroll:

will I find scribble or beautiful script

in the cavern of my heart and soul?

Why a poem a day keeps procrastination at bay

Posted on by inktuition
1

I loved taking part in National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). OK, so I didn’t manage the full 30 poems in 30 days, but I did post 26 out of the 30 ( I started two days late anyway).

I’m proud of what I achieved. I rocked up at the page pretty much every day for a month and wrote rhyming words about something front of mind that day.

Here’s what I learned from taking part in NaPoWriMo:

  1. I committed to something publicly. Therefore I felt duty bound to honour that commitment. 
  2. Poems are fantastic at capturing a tiny fragment of time. 
  3. I wrote poems about completely random things, like my kitchen skylight and a scarecrowess I photographed at a farm.
  4. I had no idea what I was going to write about until I sat down with my laptop.
  5. I only like writing poems that rhyme. They make me feel held and contained.
  6. The discipline of writing a poem kept my thoughts and feelings focused.
  7. I didn’t do any censoring. I just let the poems flow. 
  8. I wrote for fun and challenge, not for any other reason.
  9. I never found excuses not to write the poems. The only days I missed were times I was busy with family stuff and nowhere near my laptop.
  10. Today feels odd not writing in rhyme.
  11. Sometimes I ran out of ideas but still wrote a poem anyway.
  12. I love the discipline and shape of the poems I wrote. 
  13. I noticed that my repetitive themes are about shadow and death. Existential issues evidently emerging.
  14. I will continue to write poems as the mood takes me. I do anyway, but I have exercised a muscle that will need to be used and stretched regularly.
  15. Hidden pieces of me are now being seen. The act of revealing is where the healing happens.
  16. Other bloggers liked my poems. How generous the writing community is.
  17. Some of my poems got favourited on Twitter. How humbling that was.
  18. I felt resentment some days, but wrote anyway.
  19. I feel I have grown as a person.
  20. Procrastination didn’t even get a look in. If you want to get writing, get poem-ing.

Thank you, NaPoWriMo!

A poem for my soul’s calling

Posted on by inktuition
Reply

Synchronicity’s a word I love

And a concept I adore.

I know I’m on the right path

when coincidences knock at my door.

My love of words and symbols

to heal and help renew

broken hearts and spirits crushed

is a calling of the few.

How to bring this to the world

my intuition now will drive.

But the power of storytelling

is what makes me feel alive.