Deep-Snow Silence

My eyes droop, and my body relaxes beneath the weight of weary. Winter is here. Rest is needed. Let’s take it, you and I. Let’s lean into Rest and deep-snow Silence. Let’s pause our compulsion to fill each moment with noise and activity and let ourselves be with the Quiet, even if just for a little while. We need it.

NaBloPoMo Day 29: A Smile for a Kiss

largeWill you kiss me?

Will you restore my smile?

It has gone running, fleeing from my lips.

Will you beckon it back? Cajole and convince it?

Tease it up from the corners of my mouth where it has hidden itself?

Will you make a bargain for its restoration?

Will you kiss me?

Will you trade that one moment of lips upon lips, mouth to mouth, breath briefly shared,

For a smile that will shine and shimmer like the sun?

A smile that will always appear for you, always greet you.

A smile that will be yours forever.

Will you trade with me?

A tenderness for a smile?

Will you kiss me?


Poetry: Words Alive and Thriving 

This morning, a friend sent me Brandon Griggs’ CNN article “Does Poetry Matter” and I was struck by it. In my mind, I agree with the opinion that poetry is far from dead; rather, it’s just being experienced differently in this ago of social media and ultimate connectivity. I have a dear friend who shares poetry with me frequently when she thinks I might need a pick-me-up or that remind her of me, some of which I’ve never read and that’s a delight. 

My husband is an avid lover of poetry and a much better poet than I in practice. The first time we spent significant time together, just him and me, he showed me some of his poems, which I know was intensely personal for him, I know. And I will forever appreciate the gesture and love him all the more for his sharing of his literary passion with me. 

My daughter hears poetry every day, in the storybooks that I read to her and the whimsical children’s shows she watches. It’s helping her learn words and cadence and she loves it. 

Poetry isn’t dead. No, no. We just need to acknowledge it in its evolved state as well as in its classic form. Poetry is a way of viewing the world with heart and words, just like we see with our eyes and experience with our souls. 


Stepping Fierce

Also posted on The Well Written Woman – “I Walk”

I walk like I own the whole world.

My hips move clouds,

My breath guiding them along,

And water springs where my heels pierce the earth.

I walk like the world is mine to hold.

My steps ring confidence’s battle cry, thrumming wildly in its echoes.

I am a lioness, fierce as hell

But softer than gossamer.

My hands are made of fire,

To light and warm, to smelt and refine,

Though never to harm.

I walk like I own the whole damn world,

Because, right now, I really do.

= = = = =

Several weeks ago, as I walked into a store, I felt strong, confident, and fierce. And these words fluttered and tumbled around in my brain, refusing to leave until they were given a voice. I will admit, sometimes I really like it when that happens.

Photo credit

NaBloPoMo 2014 Day 14: Fleurs du Mal

Tonight, I reached up onto my shelf and drew down one of the most beautiful books I own: a leather-bound copy of The Flowers of Evil (Fleurs du Mal) by Charles Baudelaire, the poems translated into English. I first became aware of these poems when a friend had his character in a forum rpg (so deep and mysterious, that one) send the book to my character. And then, suddenly, I find this book in the store. I couldn’t resist it, couldn’t leave it behind, and it has become one of the favorites, one of the few books of poetry in my collection. Below is my favorite poem in the volume.

= = =

The Cat

Come, beautiful creature, sheathe your claws;

Rest on my amorous heart,

And let me plunge in your marvelous eyes,

Of mingled metal and agate.

When my fingers caress at leisure

Your supple, elastic back,

And my hand tingles with pleasure

From your body’s electric contact,

I see to see my mistress. Her regard,

Like yours, nice animal,

Deep and cold, cuts and thrusts like a sword,

And from her feet to her head’s dark coronal,

A subtile air, a dangerous perfume,

Swim round her brown body’s dusky bloom.


Lyric Lines

These are some of my old poems that I found the other day as my husband was tidying his den. I honestly don’t remember writing the second one but I like it. Poetry is not my strong suit; it stems from emotion and not from skill for me, but sometimes it’s all that will do to express, I’ve found.

= = =

Empty Holes

I wish there was a hole where my heart is.

A hole, big and empty.

Empty holes don’t hurt.

They don’t grow sad and despair.

Empty holes don’t make mistakes.

They don’t hurt others.

They just sit there, open to receive.

Whether someone stumbles in

Or jumps in.

Either way, it’s there.

Empty holes can’t feel the exquisiteness of joy.

Only to have it infringed upon and destroyed.

Empty holes can’t have strings broken, torn away.

Empty holes can’t lash out,

Even without meaning to.

In short,

Empty holes don’t feel.

But I do.

= = = =

A Child’s World

My world is one

Of dreams and wonders;

A world of fairy-tale games

And endless summers.

In my world, there is no voice

To say something isn’t real.

Whatever you imagine lives;

Reality has no seal.

My world is one where horses fly,

Girls can fight and win.

Where creatures talk, trees can dance,

And childhood needs never end.

Fantastic though my world can be,

It indeed has its limits few.

Things like true love, friendship, and trust

Can only come from me or you.