Once I thought,
that the most beautiful flower
grows in the middle of fields.
And among the lush green,
she sways and dances with the breeze.
Poems, poets, poetry, writing, poetry challenges
At some point the rivers of your life will suddenly stop,
your time will have come to leave this world behind.
And that little heart of yours will cease to hop,
while your soul starts floating towards the light it tries to find.
If you ever believe in anything so strongly,
then I hope you do believe in you.
And dismiss all the shit that was said to you, wrongly,
along with that damaging self-talk you tell yourself too.
Thanks to an old school friend I am able to share my first published poem from 1972 when I was 14 years old !!!!!
Pelicans leave the room
I cry with pain
Vomit flies about the room with frustration
My inner sense is black and forgetful.
A new day rises for you, daughter,
Pushing the darkness and the mists of childhood away.
Many have stood on this same shore, you know, but
This hour is wholly fresh, is yours entire,
Awesome and terrifying.
Thrilling. Dangerous. Engaging.
“Am I up to it?” You wonder…
Hidden in the rocks, its value
Waits to be found.
Digging, hitting, pounding.
Comes above the ground.
What does it want to be?
It doesn’t know.
Yearlong drought, harsh dry air.
Grass turned golden brown, flowers shrunk.
Throat burning, nostrils bleeding.
Let the grass be golden brown,
She went for a walk,
Tripped on the sidewalk.
Bruised her elbow,
Broke her ankle.
A whale made with clay,
Blowhole, eyes, mouth,
Nightlight shines through.
Living in this part of town,
Didn’t realize autumn is here.
Outside the window I’ve seen
Maple tree is still green.
Heated and rises.
as if every face she met was her sun.
Slim trimmed wings;
Fragile and fluttered
Skimming breaths of moist air.
I wonder about the people around me
About their hidden faces, their jutting angles
About what their wrinkles, facets and scars hold
Sometimes I do not think about the little things at all
Of time, there isn’t enough
We cannot all afford to be dreamers,
But dream, we must
What if those sweet little nothings were
Worsted-alpaca analogies told
in the order of when they became
aesthetic freckles; marginal matter.
Like scribbled secrets,
tattletaling exactly who stole the cookie
from the proverbial jar.
We all knew it was the snake
with the forked tongue
and watermelon-seed eyes
-or maybe it wasn’t.
How cravingly close you’ve been
To my earthly dust,
To the very timid tremblings far below
Where not even sun can invade~
Breeching open secret sproutings
Of pure Summer lust,
Crouching down to breathe early evergreen
And innocent verdant blade~
What is that happened
When we were yet to be
As we were
So long ago now it seems
Waiting, watching, wondering
Distant when I see,
You’re an elusive glory,
Heart pounding when you come closer,
I hope it does not falter.
I see you for a moment,
Then the world becomes silent.