I can attach my entire existence to the golden bleed of sun through the whisp-staccato edges of a cloud
Such moments steal my breath.
I can spiral into corners and come out of them painting with words.
I can feel the energy flowing from life breathing life paralleling, combining, releasing.
Epiphany moments, what hides in plain sight, screaming “mental illness” at the world — are simply the inner workings of a poet.
How many have suffered without knowing how to hone illness to craft?
The poets, the writers, the painters the builders, the sculptors, the dreamers — the artists — art underway, swimming thoughts in color and form, rising up — rising up into birth, rebirth — intrinsic beauty.
Let the cells within me shift and fold into that burning, golden sun.
Beneath this earth so many souls. In this ground right where I stand, my bare-heeled ache on the grit; do they linger here?
Do their solemn hazes pass me by as my breath drifts me one day to the next? Am I aware of that chill, that pressure in the air shifting, disturbing, a moaning whisper to my human ears? Does it shift me?
I turned on the light I asked you to leave
In the pierce of afternoon sun an oak; a bleak, towering, ivy-choked oak. An angular ghost. The last leaf fell long before I appeared, a shifting soul, nowhere to go. I contemplate its lean.
When comes the terrible fall? When comes the violent creaking that will rip me from my sleep?
Sudden noises — squirrel-gray antics on maple boughs, on living, bending boughs or dead bark-bare and bony limb; no difference to them, with their inexorable ramblings all toenail and chatter. They gather and they gather.
How soon will I sink into worm-foul and rot?
They will scurry across my grave. They, or their generations of they.
The dead tree refusing to fall… These wiry-tailed rodents’ gatherings… These shadows of souls carried quietly by… and I? Barefooted, sore-footed I; standing in the dirt left to ponder it all.
The squishy-cool green beneath my feet meandering before me, a path between trees. The bright arms of the sun reaching down, fingers of light, bringing growth to the ground.
I can no longer get lost this way.
I have come again. I wander again through the moss-strewn aisle in gripping fear and anxiety-laden… I know they’ll be lost if I wander awhile.
I have been here too often.
The moss knows each tentative step each catch in my breath, I gift my tears falling softly from my chin, a tender sprinkling of salt drains away my fears.
The trees creak with the breeze, interrupting me, reminding me of the cellular world, uptake of nutrient the vascular world outside of me.
I stoop and take note of basidiophytes, all dome-topped and mysterious, the feathery gills underneath each whisper-soft and musty fungus.
Worry melts from me as I picture beneath them the faeries and gnomes in secret they watch my bare feet pad by giggles on breezes drift up from their homes.
They remember my name. I am sure of it.
I find a cool spot to stretch and to lay my back in the moss, a bryophyte bliss works its way through my bones, my skin prickles and settles, I’ve so missed this.
This tender release.
If I lie here for a moment in sweet rest, in soft sphagnum hug, with the sun shining warmly… with whispering friends, meandering bugs.
I’ll rest and release, breathe in, out… the world will make sense to me again.
Deep in the North Carolina wood nestled between steep mountainous rises, a gorge, through which run waters, crisp and cool and clean.
A bench waits there for my soul.
The waters run clear, cross rock and moss, with dribbling sounds and meandering thoughts of the distant seas. The canopy hangs over.
Shady oasis of quietude waits for me to climb into its folds. A genteel hug whispered through green to wrap me up in wonder once again.
A hike for a day, I must go.
I’ll climb on the rock, spread my wings to gather the sun rub my toes in sphagnum hear the cool-water melody flow…
Oh, Carolina, you are good to my soul.
Let the breeze sway and creak in the pines! May the babbling waters find their gentle way and the mockingbirds ramble song to song, let your nature carry its secrets on.
a poem about the beautiful Mandarin duck and the not-so-beautiful Muscovy duck
Mandarin duck, Pexels.com
On Dappling Pond
White, crisp half-moon,
the blue crested melt
to ruddy hind swoop.
Tawny wings tucked under,
belted by royal blue.
Sleek chest, brazen
blue as ocean-deep.
Neck ringed in
maple majesty lace. Enlightened,
resplendent,
spectacular.
All nature’s paintbrushes! Were they hog hair or badger? Were they rinsed clean in muddy waters encircled by sawgrass; sandy-fawn stippled?
The Mandarin navigates, whisper-smooth and waggle, the Carolina grasswort; rising variegated greens wind-bent and skyward.
Mucsovy regards the radiant fowl, disturbed at such reckless abuse of color… for one dappling duck? Pinkish beak dipped under, up with a snail? Asnail! Vexed, perturbed, Muscovy waddles, plops with a splash and a glide, nature’s sculptor’s pride, its gnarly head held high.
I hope you enjoyed On Dappling Pond (I am quite fond of this one) and will stick around to read some more of my poetry. I have made it easy to find ones you may like and you can find links to poems on the poetry tab, or use the navigation menu and search features on the homepage. Thank you again…what did you think of On Dappling Pond?
Muscovy ducks are widely varied in blacks and whites–but the red bumpy face is usual. This is a snippet from a picture on All About Birds website.
As is true of many poetry prompts, my poem will often take me into uncharted waters…in this poem I wrote from the perspective of a young boy, and used HUMOR in my poem. WHOA. That is pretty different for me! Tell me what you think…
I am told the new dawn came while I slept fitfully wrapped in the taco of a dream. Or a dream Of a taco though I’m not sure which. I am told it was quite spectacular but I slept way too shortly and woke up rather hungry and somehow wanting cheese. Was misty and spooky He said to me, while I chased colored hoops with a spoon Is that so, I said halfheartedly You bet! He said and hiked up his socks, slipping on his old man shoes. I in my pj’s and you in your suit I sure don’t want to be you If that means the new dawn comes and I don’t get my usual snooze. Hey Dad, I said wiping milk off my chin, Yeah son? You said with a scruff on my head… Can we have tacos soon?
You
were the cold air to my warm.
Every time I tried to rise
you crystalized
dropped me down
one terrifying electrical pulse
after another.
I charged and fell to the ground.
The
air outside is electric.
I am drawn, mystified,
bursts of wind on my face
pulling me out, beyond
the trap of my front door.
Hands on the metal fence
eyes wide, heart bursting.
Exhilaration! That scent on the
air…my God! I can feel it!
The
storm approaching, quickly,
violently, with flashes of white
and thunderous cracks
vibrating my spine,
lifting my tiny hairs
tingling, jolting, jarring,
awakening.
Leaves
upturned, showing their whites,
vulnerable, submitting to ozone
and flash of terrifying release,
fingers of God pointing, choosing
ground to fire, fire to tree
tree to Thee.
I
can smell the power,
feel it stirring within me.
Choose me! Choose me!
Please.
Lift me on fiery wing
to Thee, to Thee!
From the safety of the door
behind me, Get back in the house!
You barking at me.
Always barking at me
or growling your menacing growl.
You coward.
Back in the house? You are the only one safe in there.
Come inside?
Through the kitchen where you
pressed my face to the floor?
Past the stairs where I slept
and wept upon the carpeted corners
reeking of dust and neglect?
Past the bathroom door where
the mirrors know my bruises
and the tear-swelled lids of my eyes
as well as it knows it’s purpose, hanging there.
Like
it’s safer in there than out here?
I
know my purpose too, you know.
I intend to rise.
I intend to rise.
I
stand, gripping tight to chain-link
the ground yielding vibration with the
rolling roars, shock waves splintering
connecting, fury unbound
they revolt and celebrate the sky.
(Duplicity is a real bitch.)
Flash!
Again…again!…stir me, shake me
beat me wise,
friction then repose
I
lift, face to the sky
electricity in the air
lifting me higher, higher
leaving you
down
there.
Intent to impress
folding under to shame,
I begin my walking,
My purse in tow, the shiny vehicle slows.
No. Not the boss.
I am thankful with verbiage
Humiliated, I am
Riding with a suit
that costs more than my car
Join me in this challenge–write 10 poems this month to celebrate National Poetry Month
National Poetry Month Goal for myself–Write 10 Poems, Here is Poem #
Safety Pin
Cotton dress with floral print. I have chosen it carefully but I run out of gas! With Intent to impress folding under to shame, I begin my walking, My purse in tow, the shiny vehicle slows. No. Not the boss. I am thankful with verbiage Humiliated, I am Riding with a suit that costs more than my car discarded on the side of the road, to the office where gossip greets. He walks in, greeted with enthusiastic handshakes and pompous attempts to garner his attention. I keep behind in my cotton dress with floral print, Invisible. I slink to my desk under Scrutinous stares, whispers. How did you come to work with the boss? I ran out of gas I say, Stretching out my arm to see the odd feeling, I probe a hole. A hole in my cotton dress with the floral print. In the absence of a safety pin I staple the fabric And set about my work. Invisible still.
Will you join me in this challenge? Post your poem or link to your poem in a comment below, so we can support each other and together celebrate our craft.
National Poetry Month was inaugurated by the Academy of American Poets in 1996. Over the years, it has become the largest literary celebration in the world with schools, publishers, libraries, booksellers, and poets celebrating poetry’s vital place in our culture.
Late in February I made two decisions. First, I wanted to start writing again. (The first thing I did was bought a laptop so I could work. It had been awhile since I’d even looked at my blog, and by awhile, I mean years. I started it back in 2008, hit hard at it for a couple of months, swinging blindly in the dark with no direction, no idea what I was doing, and worked my way up to 14 whole followers, most the result of a cross stitch freebie I offered.
I couldn’t even remember how to log in.
So, I figured out the log in stuff, revamped the blog over the course of 48 exhausting hours (still very much clueless about how to edit and post, navigate, or promote) and relaunched with renewed purpose and a clearer vision for what I wanted the blog to be. i still have less than 150 followers but that number is rising a little each day.
The second decision was to finish my book. I researched and purchased Scrivener and worked hard at the tutorial to learn how the features worked, and I set out to inputting the few measly pages I’d written and plunged forward to writing.
A funny thing happens when you honor your dream: doors open. I am writing poetry again. People are reading it. Literary journals are publishing it. Even my local newspaper has picked me up as a columnist and …get this…they encourage me to submit my poetry for publication! So far two of my poems, Bluebirds in Late Winter and Tomorrows have been published in the paper. I started a Medium account: https://medium.com/@fnfwriter and guess which of my posts are getting the highest attention?
The poetry.
Oh, my heart! And here I was posting articles, thinking, I’ve got to have something on Medium to get people to my page, so they see the poetry.
But they COME for the poetry.
Poetry, like all art, has a message for us. It says: care, grow, develop, adapt, overcome, nurture, protect, foster, cherish. It says: your reality is spiritual. It says: achieve your full humanness. It invites us to laugh, reflect, cry, strive, persevere. It says: rejoice! Above all, it says to us: be! We cannot turn our backs on art. Art heals. – from a talk by Roger White, Bring Chocolate, in The Language of There
So, here in National Poetry Month, I am going to pay more attention to my craft, without apology. With a renewed confidence that what I am doing, and you, my fellow poet, should do the same. There ARE still people out there that can appreciate the value of poetry, how it moves us. Shows us our own humanity. Allows us to go away to some interesting place where we measure what we know against what we are seeing in the words of a poem, and then let the heart decide how to read it. Poetry makes us think, analyze, process…and in a good way. by choice we go on the journey, either to write it or to read and experience it.
I invite you this month to:
Support poets and honor their craft with your attention, your reactions, your thanks. As a poet, we truly do love a reader-response!
Read a poem from your favorite famous poet. Don’t have a favorite? FIND a favorite poet and learn their story and style.
Write a poem! Or write one every day of the month if you are up to the challenge!
If you’d like to leave your link below to your poetry blog or if you’d like to share a poem in a comment, you are welcome to do so. Thank you for reading and HAPPY NATIONAL POETRY MONTH!!
Chirstina M. Ward | Fiddleheads & Floss Writing Services 