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For the wistful, write, weep, whisper words poetry contest by Constance La France.
“This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.”
Rumi
My poetic beginnings
emanate from silent suppression,
revealing evergreen verses hiding in my mind.
Memories of summer die in cold November.
There are no warm days when the seasons are melting.
I'm always waiting to re-bloom in the next Spring,
so my poetic garden reflects rose gold colours of sunset.
I was once a healing heart, a scared soul afraid of reality,
but I always believed in something beautiful.
My father once told me,
you'll understand when you are older.
Years go by, yet, I wonder what it is I did not know.
His sins left him misunderstood and homeless,
and I, a child with bitter candies from childhood.
What was I to understand?
How to deal with a heavy heart?
How not to make abrupt decisions?
How to avoid explosive emotions?
So much confusion from unanswered questions,
always left me seeking the right path, until I realised
I was an unborn poet searching for his quill.
He was a shepherd who forgot his flock,
angry with himself and the rest of the world.
Unable to acknowledge my fears,
I did not figure out his torment.
I used to laugh so much that as a child,
I cared not about the road not taken,
nor if imaginations are real or not,
especially when shadows grew bigger.
But life is a diary of destined goodbyes,
towards the end of his last breath,
I tried one more time,
but was left with only silence.
Pain gives birth to a poet,
wordsmiths do not write verses,
they cut open their hearts,
exposing what their eyes hide,
so eyes reveal unshed tears.
Some days I write poetry,
but sometimes poetry writes me.
Today, my daughter asked me
"what's the meaning of life."
I almost said,
"you'll understand when you are older."
Instead, I told her,
"it's like a new pen,
a new page or new wishes.
Always keep practicing a new hello,
as there are too many goodbyes.
Our journeys are like climbing a metaphorical mountain.
We are afraid of the avalanche,
yet we know it will come,
so we try to build a safe haven,
to protect us, but we know it's going to affect us.
Home is a feeling, not an emotion,
your heart will know when you find your sanctuary.
Don't ever wait for the fire of your ambitions to die,
keep burning like the brightest eternal star.
Happiness or peace is sometimes not a choice,
but when you find it remain in that moment,
because life can pass us by it moves so fast,
In time you will learn that -
once what was inevitable is now a memory,
so pour out your heart with your ink"
and I'll keep writing till I die.
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2024
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