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.
Tag Archives: creativity
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
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
