When even words hurt
too much to write on a page,
it is time to stop.
Tag Archives: creativity
HAIKU/ POETRY
Wildly careening
prose portrayed as poetry
fools no one but me.
Filed under POETRY
SELF-STUDY 2
Only the stump of the gangly tree remained
after Grandpa, who did not conceive the dream,
destroyed the dream with each cut of the limbs
of the tree from which his grandson fell and broke an arm.
To Grandpa the tree had lost its charm.
It had to be cut down to avoid more harm.
Adults are funny that way.
They too often see harm in children’s play.
Children, little heathens that they be,
expect harm with regular frequency.
And, so, the tree was cut off from us, but we
built a tree house anyway, in which to play;
and warned all adults to stay away.
It was not built prettily; but, with whatever
we pulled from cans along the alley,
and raided from piles of trash.
To a child such piles are a treasure cache.
Thus, we kids our tree house celebrated
though Grandpa was far from elated.
“Let them be, Pop,” Mom laughingly stated.
“Kids will be kids, as once were we.”
Lessons learned from a time so long gone,
remembered now, to remind us how strong
the need to create and celebrate rises
despite the times all goes wrong.
Life is simply full of surprises.
Building from trash is sometimes the wisest
and the best which we can do.
This is my self-study two.
Filed under POETRY
SOLEMN VOW
Where does my world begin and end?
Before the horizon or beyond it to some unknown shore
That has only appeared in my dreams before?
Is my world worth saving, again and again.
Are we simply so tired we do not mind it could end?
Helpless, it seems, I am to do more.
Technology now must save the day
as I find my own simple way
to save and protect all that I love.
I cannot sit still and not do my part.
I must give it my all, and give you all my heart.
I plant native plants and trees,
flowers whose blooms dance in fierce breeze.
Butterflies and bees swoop in and sip
the nectar of gods, nip after nip.
I feed the homeless and shelter those displaced
by flood, fire, crime, famine and war.
I visit the isolated and phone the lonely.
I stay healthy enough to stay earth-bound a few days more
to love those far away and those close around me.
I fold my hands and grip my rosary beads
praying those with power and ability
know what to do and how to succeed.
I love this Earth, its flora and fauna;
its sunrises and sunsets and all in between.
I love its sunny days and cloudless blue skies;
and days when storms hide sun behind a screen.
There is no place in the universe that I would rather be
than right here with you, as we face such adversity.
My hope lies in science and those drenched in creativity
who see beyond today to a future of love and harmony;
not just for all the people of the Earth
but for Earth herself who offers us sanctuary
within the endless energy of planetary boundaries.
Where does my world begin and end?
Right here, with you, right now.
This is a solemn vow.
take it and make it
your own
somehow.
FILING DAY…more to come
I am finally setting up a filing system for the hundreds of poem I have written over the last 25 years. This poem still rings true. So, I am sharing it with you.
I AM THAT EVE 10-27-1999
I am that Eve
who stood before that tree
and beheld the face of God
eye-to-eye,
as an equal.
I am that Eve
who chose to leave her father’s garden
for one of her own making,
God’s co-creator
of the garden of earthly delights.
I am that Eve
both Magdalen and Madonna
in reflection of God’s love,
an earthly and eternal
gift to man.
I am that Eve
who waits in stillness
and fruitfulness of Spirit
who would crush the head
of those who hiss their judgement of others.
I am that Eve
who takes the hand of man
and leads him from ignorance and lies
to self-knowledge, and places him
in the hands of God.
I am that Eve
who touches the roots
and taste the fruits
of ancient wisdom
and God’s own heart.
I am that Eve.
Filed under POETRY
THE POET
I wake with words upon the tongue,
fingers ready to write down thoughts among
the fractured dreams of worlds long gone,
whose stories linger eon after eon.
No breakfast nor shower first for those like me
who live and breathe a universe of poetry.
Filed under POETRY
GREY DAYS
Some days are more difficult than others
and paint will not dry fast enough
to add the details which make the canvass
come alive in form and color.
The grey, pregnant clouds cover the sky
from end to end and roll over again ,and again,
blocking the sun and the light in one’s eye.
The brush sits, waiting in the palm.
The heart sits, waiting out the storm.
The canvass sits waiting
as empty as life seems to be.
But, artists know better than to fear
the light has died forever.
Artists simply wait out the storm,
paint the clouds above the crowd
of grey and dull thoughts;
and, write the words bold and loud.
Some days are more difficult than others,
thank goodness.
They challenge the artist and poet inside
and offer them a place to hide.
Until the sun rises high in the sky.
then artists and poets run outside,
paint and words flying far and wide.
Filed under POETRY
WOKE WITH A POKE
By the age of two
chocolate was my favorite hue.
One day, I was firmly woke
by my mother’s forceful poke.
We were shopping
in the lower level of the Five and Ten
when I saw the most lovely woman,
elegantly sleek with a stately mien.
I pulled my thumb out of my mouth
and stood in silent awe
at the first person of color I ever saw.
As soon as I spoke I felt the poke
and knew what I had said was wrong.
What had I said that made Mom move
to wake me up, and make me see
some new truth among the many
she tried to teach me?
I said with joy, so gleefully,
“Mommy, look at the chocolate lady!”
Mom’s horrified look
was accompanied by the poke.
“Shush,” Mom said, “we do not comment
on how others look.”
The lady grinned,
then opened her smile to take us in.
She said to my Mother, “Your little girl is fine.
I assume she loves chocolate as much as I.”
The two women laughed and shared a smile
that brought out their beauty, in eyes that shined
with love and joy in the innocence
of a child who thought chocolate ladies
are oh, so deliciously fine.
I asked the lady, “Why are you a different color?”
Then, Mom said, “God made people of many hues,
sizes, and shapes to make the world more fun for you.
We would all be so bored if we were the same.
Like the bigger box of crayons of sixty-four hues
you keep asking me to buy for you,
God made each one of us different
so we could enjoy life so much more.”
Then the two ladies said, “So very nice to meet you.”
That day I came home with a box of sixty-four
crayons and wisdom, and so much more.
I was woke with a poke
and found a new and bigger world to explore.
At seventy-three it still holds true
that I love chocolate, and diversity, too;
in the paints near the easel, the neighbors nearby,
the books on the shelf, and the places I fly.
The world awakens with pokes to keep us awoke
so life’s many wondrous possibilities do not pass us by.
Filed under POETRY
A POET’S VIEW
Paper of every color and hue
unrolls from thousands of inner tubes
that I might write upon a page;
so bright, it dims the sight
and opens the mind to such delight
in cerulean, amaranth, celadon,
garnet, crimson, vermillion
violet, tangerine, ecru and Eton-blue;
colors I can taste and feel
as they unroll reel by reel
so real they dance and sing and swell
until the pen dips in the well.
I wrap each page around each cell
and feel the energy seep through
blood and bone and sinew
into every soft tissue
that pulses with breath
and laughter and tears,
and beats with heart-felt truth
so hard and fast it hardly knows
what words spill out upon the page,
which black marks ink signs
to tell me the way
while you can see and understand
before I can even comprehend
that a poem has unfurled from tubes
not of cardboard but of gold.
Writing is the treasure of stories untold
and waiting to be wrapped
then given as gifts as colors unfold.
EMPTY SPACES
We wait each day in a small open space
in another-wise closed mind of sameness
for some thing, some new thing, to come our way.
We go out to get the mail in anticipation,
awakened to an heightened expectation,
to what we might find inside the box and us.
What do we hope to find ?
Bills come due for past behavior good or bad.
Notice of unexpected wealth from contest
without real competition promising a future
which holds no need to become more than what we are.
A card of remembrance of some event we attended
far away and long ago, with those not seen since.
Best of all, a letter from a beloved friend or lover
noticing we are here and waiting to resume
where intimate communication left off awhile ago.
An appointment scheduled for the future
to enliven days ahead with something new to anticipate.
What happens when mail or life suspends delivery ?
when that small space stays empty too long
does it wither and die? Shrivel to nothingness ?
Does our sense of discovery also suspend
or does the small space expand end-on-end
until it fills an eternity of space beyond
what we can comprehend in that small space?
Is sameness day-after-day a curse or way to mend
a closed mind, and open it even greater grace
with even greater possibilities?
Time to go get the mail and fill every space
of every day, of every year with everyone
and everything I can, end-upon-end of right now.
Filed under POETRY
annarino writes 