Reading through old poems and this one gript my heart anew.
It still amazes me that I hated my own writing for years and wouldn’t dare put pen to paper because of what leaked out. Now, I enjoy my own poems so much that sharing them is a pleasure. Though, this isn’t one of my best poems, still, the pleasure in sharing without fear of what others think is lovely. Time changes so much.
It’s Spring and life goes on.
Hooting owl seeking mate’s solace.
Cooing doves with heads touched.
Airplanes dipping low overhead.
Distant traffic sounds whoosh closer then pass.
Pool glimmering blue in morning sun.
Neighbor’s dog pacing at my door for attention.
Ceiling fan teases the air with cool breeze.
Hummingbirds dance around my head as I type.
Butterflies flutter dance on lantana and violas.
Moon watches pale in sky
while Sun burns higher and high.
Earth beams grounding tracks
while Sky descends to ground and back.
Heart’s muted cries see through teary waves
as Eyes leak in sorrow haze.
Breath moves in unseen breeze.
Womb pulses more joyously.
Sacred wind swirls through me
and setting free.
Cosmic blessings and light,
enraptured grace sparkles
clearing darkness’ feigned plight
and feinted blows.
Universal crescendo of power
burns through darkness
leaving trails of light
in velvety cave resplendent, aglow.
Love manifests in this symphony.
Nurtured, protected, honored.
You are safe in my velvety cave.
Heart held, sheathed in tender power,
protected by the ferocity of love
in purest form from spirit space.
down through the time
of mind between the lines
is chaotic grace, hope unmet.
Shivers of liquid truth sail freely.
Tremors tiptoe and tickle through.
New thoughts gather and flow
down through time’s door,
Poetry inspired by this picture
[Iris Ruffles | taylor sterling]
Draped in nature’s pink mist
and tender drapes of amethyst,
tender drops of dew slip toward
does not cuddle
but she hovers near in
safe harbor whilst nuzzles of
trust are bestowed on my ankles and calves.
Together, we enjoy her lurking
ritual of freedom,
Note: Linda J. Wolff’s poem ‘Between Sunrises and Sunsets‘ using Rictameter verse inspired me to work with this form myself.
“…this form of poetry—Rictameter Verse, uses 9 lines in the poem, and strict syllable count: 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 8, 6, 4, 2 with the first line repeating itself in the last line.”
My first attempt is not nearly as elegant as Linda’s poetry, yet I love the fun of this form and shall be using it more.
I’m reading through a few entries in my first private journal started in 2013. The only person I shared that journal with often said even my writing style was poetic. At the time, I did not see that. About 2 years after starting that journal, a creative writing flow was set free in me and this poetry blog was born. In recent months, I’ve begun a second poetry blog which is not anonymous. Felt like the time had come to be more public with whatever content I was comfortable to share as ‘me’. 🙂
Below is my first entry in that initial top secret (!) journal writing blog. I want to turn it into an official poem yet leaving it as is feels right.
Whoever you are, I want to tell you I already LOVE the creative flow in you and cannot wait until you share it with the rest of us. Whether you choose to write anonymously as I did here or write publicly as yourself, the exhilaration of sharing will cause new levels of freedom and creativity to be activated within.
August 2013 Journal Writing
During meditation, I kept feeling tight pain in my chest and followed the instructions to direct my breath there. As the physical tightness unwrapped and relaxed, tears began flowing. My heart is broken for my sister’s loss, yet there is recognition of pain layers going much deeper than recent events can explain.
Rivers of wrong rising up and a slow rinsing away of injustice with each teardrop.
Pain is wearisome yet when embraced like the wretched porcupine it is, it turns into joy unending. The greatest pain is overcome by an even deeper joy, always.
Hope is born in new dimensions and colors at the oddest of moments.
A delicate craving begins to smoulder.
The finest wisp of smoke arises.
I thought perhaps erotic passion had drowned in grief.
After all, how could I express sensual murmurs and orgasmic quests
while memorial services are wrapped around families’ ankles
and draped all over the internet?
Even so, this delicate craving has snuck past sorrow
and found life in your grace.