a poem for broken

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.

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NaPoWriMo 2018 day 18: the wind on a not so brilliant day

I tried to tend it, but nature overwhelmed my efforts

What’s the point of even trying

with all that withering around me.

Yes, take the leaves and petals, leave the ground free and clean

as I want to face life, not death.

All the flowers are gone, and I want them back

No, you can’t take their smell away from me

and I’m not sure about your odour of jasmine.

If it’s meant to be the call of my soul

then I’ll wait for the wind to blow it in.

 

This is an upside-down take on original poem The Wind, One Brilliant Day, by Antonio Machado

The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

‘In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I’d like all the odor of your roses.’

‘I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.’

‘Well then, I’ll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.’

the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
‘What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?’

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.

 

my creative heart

inktuition creative heart

my creative heart has been

beating but not seen,

patiently not known,

hoping, lying in wait

that one day, like this,

I would notice its pulse

and take heed of its sounds

listen to its beat,

see all its signs,

act on its guidance.

Create, at last,

what makes it sing.

A full-hearted swing

at life’s infinite joy.

(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/cuteimage)

my ambivalent feelings for snow

inktuition snow

Oh, when you’re meant to be there

you don’t bother turning up:

(Christmas).

The whole world grinds to a halt

from two millimetres of you

(London).

You rock up when we don’t need you

and kids want to throw you around

(school run, 30 minutes late).

When you grow old and dark,

my heels and tyres slip warily on you

(icy reception).

Yet the fragility of your freshest flakes

makes the air a magic twinkle

(trees and fresh snowprints).

And being snowed in for days

while annoying, is freeing

(sound of your silence).

this little light that shines…

I feel so raw

when my girl gets called

a loser.

I think so fast

when my love for her

is tossed

in the net of all their taunts.

They’re bigger than her.

So what?

They swagger, they sway

in her face

to stop her winning game.

They’d like to blow right out her light

a candle snuffed before its prime.

Yet in her heart she feels

some bright

that shines way beyond:

oh yes. She’ll have her time.

exposure

under my duvet, onesie-d and warm

i’m safe.

at parties with mates, patter from mouth and glass in hand

i’m safe.

in meetings that count, with lipstick and heels

i’m safe.

to show my feelings, expose an emotion

i’m unsafe.

to express on paper the novel within

i’m unsafe.

to say to the world what’s really in my heart

that’s unsafe.

Expose. Hide.

Safe. Unsafe.

Aren’t they both

two sides that chafe?