I suppose the next thing
You’re going to tell me
Is that it was my fault.
I’m used to this type of
Ridiculousness going
Against reality.
Why can’t it be normal
For once? Why do we
Have to pretend?
Just once, I wish
You would let
The walls down.
I’m held back by what I think
Might happen but probably won’t,
Struggling against my racing mind
That constantly tries to hold me back.
This time will be different,
I’ll resolve to not listen to the voices
And forge my own destiny,
Relishing my new found freedom
And the joy of being me.
A thought was captured,
rodeoed and lassoed
into submission.
The thought sat awhile-
Later, it was rejected.
dedicated my nice Romanian friend Vasile
You are everything to me-
right now,
don’t you know?
Because you are-
my poetry.
always disappears
your yearn born with you,
you must imagine not getting it,
not be in the moment .
The moment is gone
or to be. Moment
is a door neither closed nor open,
half in, half out. A midwifes
tender grope for a head, a nose,
In the inside dark her touch a torch.
More at https://thewombwellrainbow.com/.
Besides a pencil or pen,
Paper, and an imagination,
You need the ears of a moth,
A bird’s vision,
A Philomath’s brain,
A Hippocratic heart,
And an empath’s spirit,
Then mix in incidents from your life.
Let simmer,
And you’ll write.
You’ll write.
Fairy realms linger; longings whispered to a child.
Heads full of hoods and wolves howl lonely on a moor,
While the yellowed pages guide a brittle mossed path
Back to bedtimes beyond and freshly buoyant
With my own children’s chatter and clutter of stairs
Climbed. And I the teller now light incantations
Of darkness and of the hovering dreams
Freshly born tonight, ancient and again new
Brimming with technicolour misty murmurs
Laid through the years so we bite again apples
Snow White’s blood red lips knew and poison kissed.
And feel Rapunzel’s starry, salty tears stray
To cure princely eyes and cut our own computer
Devised reality to size.
Dark comforts offered word by voice in these tales
Ensconce us; wrapping pain and reality in duvets
And towel damp hair; all beauty filtered to our bleary
Beds and so it is the children sleep.
What I love
is a beautiful poem
My soul dies for it.
What I love
is a wonderful man.
My heart dies for it
love is really an action word
must be felt, not just heard
conspicuous when present
by deed more than intent
to know, to trust and to feel
love is a wrap-around deal
