All poetry is
autobiography.
‘nough said already.
Tag Archives: creativity
Haiku
Perhaps you are not
Where you planned to be, so create
Wherever you land.
Filed under POETRY, Uncategorized
KENTUCKY
Kentucky sits down pen in hand.
Words tumble unkempt as she
undressed yet and hungry
not simply to be fed
after arising from her bed
with food and drink
but, with vowels and consonants
in constant need to create meaning
from nightmares and dreams
of words which stream
like Kentucky’s flood
destroying all in its wake
as her words awake and beg
to live above the waterline.
The dreams may drown
but Kentucky’s words live on
battered senseless by the weight
of rushing water tossing them around
until they come to rest upon this page.
Kentucky will dry in these words.
Kentucky will survive in these words.
Kentucky is not gone in these words
but, simply moving on to better days ahead
as she rises again from her nightmare-tossed bed.
Kentucky pulls her blanket of dreams
about her trembling form
determined to rise above and move on
to dry land, where the ink has dried.
Filed under POETRY
PATTERNS ET.AL.
PATTERNS
Patterns tell stories
usually hidden from view.
Each morning I rise
and pick up my pen,
put it to paper
to see what thoughts
descend.
Today, a series of thoughts
seem attuned to one another.
Four poems gathered
but refused to do more
than make me yearn
for words to return
and tell a story
to help me learn
something.
Anything.
Perhaps putting them in a row
will eventually show
what they are trying to tell me.
so, here, I go.
SAVED BY THE GARDEN
Saved again by the Garden.
Its views extend my own.
Who knows what will become
of the seeds I have sown.
Better to focus on new life
than to reflect on the old.
RUNAWAY
Hurry to the table.
Pick up the pen.
Let thoughts descend
before I pick up a comb,
wash my face,
or even get dressed.
The words run off
too fast for any of that.
I struggle to catch the words
before they are lost
in mundane tasks.
Today, I was too slow.
DISAPPEARING ACT
Where do words go
when they run from me?
To another poet?
To another essayist?
Are they too uncomfortable to tell
the truths I know so well?
Is the runner the words,
or is it I who run
away from words ?
LOST DREAM
A blast of cold air
swept over the sheets
and awakened me too soon
before the dawn
grew bright enough
to see within the darkened room.
I could not see the words today.
I only felt the cold and felt bereft
that the dream had gone.
Filed under POETRY
annarino writes 