Outside of her was history.
A shroud to the past
The living beneath a life.
beyond the open door
an engraved coin, the swell
of violins, conjured spirits,
the echos of and
etching of yesterday
The yearning for a new day.
Inside of her, dwindling reason
An endless ticking watch
The watch was her mind.
Sometimes I sing in incomplete rhymes.
I write in crayon and leave
my shoes beside the sandbox.
I sign my letters with x and o.
I ponder in doubt, the crisscross musings
speaking out loud.
Sometimes a woman needs
flowers out of season, homegrown vegetables, romance,
sex, and easy to read instructions.
Instead she meditates on ice cream
Jung and HGTV
Attempts to become enlightened.
Prays to paper and pen.
Looking for an all encompassing view.
Hoping for an all embracing embrace.
She offers herself to drumbeat and sage.
The rhythm under the air. She turns her heart
to some inferior door, finding something buried
in red. Hope for a moment sustained
The past slips forward
under the door.
Slithering around on the
floor, tangled with our
muted perceptions and half
recalled facts. It’s dines
on our regrets, our annual
if only breakfast of crow.
We study it like math,
figures, we can’t quite grasp
We equate in retrospect.
under a ghost light
We ponder its multiplicity.
We survive on a broken
calculator and flashcards
that read don’t let go.
It feels safe to reside inside poetry. It’s my escape route.
Real and imagined.
Here I can live multiple lives
My feelings are diverse, if I tire of one emotion, there’s always another close as the ink on my hand.
Poetry holds my heart, and understands like water, I’m perpetually in transition. My words take on many forms. Some are steeped in reality. Others, solely fantasy, perhaps, live perceived in a parallel universe.
My soul never grows static in verse. My poet self, helps me gain confidence to live life as my real self, to have the courage to balance monotony and forgive the world its drudgery.
Hello lovely ones. Just a few random thoughts from a chaotic mind. Firstly, I’d like to say that, I really appreciate everyone who takes the time to read and follow this blog. It means the world to me. I’ve connected with some really wonderful and talented folks. I’m grateful for those connections and I know that some of those friendships will carry-on for many years to come. Having said that, I will be cutting back on the amount of time I spend here. Life has taken on a very busy tone of late. I will still be posting but the frequencies of my posts will be more sporadic and sparse. My goal is to at least post once a week.
Secondly, I don’t want to get political but I will say that now more than ever, I am praying for our country.. It should be noted, I’m not even a particularly religious person. It is my hope that love and tolerance will always win out of over hate and bigotry. it’s up to us to hold our leaders to a higher standard and demand that they govern with dignity, integrity and compassion.
Steps off soap box and looks for cake. Hands you a piece.
Some years we peel
open like a fruit.
This year an orange.
We devour the nectar
or, feeling badly for the
naked fruit, we handle
it with care.
Other years are fruitless.
We search through our
refrigerators until we find
a carton of large white.
Cracking the years open
like an egg, until the yolk
break, running through our
fingers and onto time.
The air crisp with autumn
implores the trees
and me to fall under its spell
The clouds dust the
sun away as if to say not
even grey can eradicate
such a perfect day.
The leaves even refuse
to say goodbye content to
hang around on the
ground. Devoting their last
hours to maple tips
and the call of Jack Frost.
My cares lossen by the wind
and the aesthetics
of burnt red and pine artistry.
Charmed by the earthy
scent of October.
I await a a sliver bone moon
Content with the early
dark beauty.. Its curves and edges
The voluptuous figure
of a falling fall.
I want to reside inside the voice
of a Tibetan monk
And be lulled to sleep by the silence.
Instead the irritating cadence
of political discourse
Uncivil and unholy
The hills alive with the sound
of madness.
The breeze tinged with malice
even the birds
feel forsaken. Aimlessly looking
for just one branch
of grace. The tree limbs breaking
under the weight of
an uncertain future.
We beseech the earth for guidance.
Warring with hot air.
Hoping the world will revolve anew.
I was interviewed by the exceptional and talented Amanda from Mandibelle16 If you get a chance check it out. She really came up with a wonderful set of questions.
Amanda is also a gifted poet. Her poetry is full of depth and beauty. If you aren’t following her, you should be.
Happy Monday! Welcome to my bi-weekly interview series. I am happy to share with you September’s second interview: the fascinating, beautiful, and gifted poet,Tosha Michelle from the blog — Everything I Never Told You: Lucidly In Shadows, Poetry From A Hand That Writes Misty.
My name is Tosha Michelle and I hail from the land of grits and sweet tea. I’m a poet and author of two books — Confessions of a Reformed Southern Belle and Self Help toSelf Harm. The first is a chapbook and contains some of my earlier poems. The latter is my silly take on the self help genre. I’ve written things since I was a child but I didn’t take up blogging until about five-years-ago.I’m also an abolitionist and Academia addict. I’m…