Anticipating glee, lights go down:
the curtain holds the clue
to what the fan beholds.
a poem for curtain up
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Tag Archives: writing
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.
NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 2: a to-and-fro on commitment
Me:
I really love you, I want to commit,
But life has me stressed
up to the armpits.
You:
You love your stress, can’t live without,
you create it all ways.
In you I doubt.
Them:
If only they knew the short time they had left
they’d spend less on the lack,
nor let fear be their theft.
NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 1: my secret rainy pleasure
Drops of rain ram down in droves,
pooling into cloudy clumps
on sticky, muddy terrain
that’s terrifically, terribly sodden.
Yet the sound of those drops
brings tremendous
comfort to my wounded heart
that is yearning, craving peace.
Soggy outside.
Smug inside.
NaPoWriMo Day 2: soul recipe
My gluten-free pot
creates a stir –
and why not?
The heart of my dish
stirs the soul:
sprinkle what’s forgot.
pic credit: yayyayoy
NaPoWriMo Day 1: remembering to bloom
And so the month of memory
begins to tickle my heart.
A month to delve deep
and recover my soul;
for my barest branch
to grow plump-pink blossoms.
(pic copyright: Clairev)
And still I’m blocked…
All the work I’ve done on myself:
the therapy, the healing,
the certificates I’ve gained,
the triumph of Masters degrees.
And still I’m blocked.
All the promises I’ve made,
to stay true to my talent,
seem to land on fertile turf,
yet remain fallow, dry, non-manifest.
And still I’m blocked.
All the years I’ve passed,
with fresh intentions each Jan
that fade to grey, nudging into Feb.
In March it’s as if they never began.
And still I’m blocked.
All the distractions I excitedly seek.
New garden: tick. Weekly weeding: tock.
Jobs to take my mind off the task,
decade after decade. That’s the shock.
And still I’m blocked.
All the futures I’ll never achieve:
what will be my hand-me-down glory?
A creative life chronically unlived?
Or trusting what’s for me won’t go past me?
Knowing all of this… and more.
And still I’m blocked.
(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/KROMKRATHOG)
trapped in non-life
head in noose
wishing someone could tighten the knot
melting my feet from beneath
alone in dilemma
an over-thinking hell
i seek solace under random lorry wheels
caught in a block
seeking release from within
i instead feel lost and without
age has caught up
i have the tears of a frown
etched on my disappointed face
no eyes turn my way
avoiding glance, discovery:
i’m just a forgotten yesterday
the conflict of lonely and alone
being alone is a heart-opening thing
and the solitary self comes alive when alone,
yet the yearning of lonely brings bitter-sweet tears
that fall on a cheek with a splash and a sting.
the bitter turns sweet when a spine feels the comb
of fingertips intent on opening the heart,
yet the yearning of lonely brings tears for fears,
and that solitary self plays a part.
My response to day 14 of NaPoWriMo 2016: write a san san
inktuition 