Is a diary entry 'poetry' per se?
What if it touches engaging the soul
peeling back layers of raw hidden emotion?
What if it bares sharing innermost secrets ~
what if it articulates heart to heart?
Sometimes we'll just blurt out our feelings
avoiding the fancy frivolous packaging
spilling the beans it's not always pretty.
We just say it like it is
black on white unfiltered uncensored
words spewing out without grace or flair
just getting the load off our chest.
So... are diary entries 'poetry'?
Yes if you want them to be
Yes when they go beyond the mundane
Yes when they pull at your heartstrings
in any way you choose ~
Lineku: 3 stanzas of 5-7-5 lines ~ every line either 5 or 7 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Journal
Thank you father God
Every day is a brand new day
Thank you for a roof over our head and food to eat
Thank you that you stand by us when things look bleak
We may let ourselves fall
But your love always comes through
We would not survive if itwas not
For you
Always giving
Always forgiving
We are not worthy
But yet you love us still Amen
Lamentations 3 : 23
His mercy is new
Every morning Amen
He found the journal on the train
Of a young little girl with no name
He sat there reading through her thoughts
Of dragons and Lions in their mighty roars
Or the golden apple that was caught
Each page filled with dreams
Some fairytales with glorious queens
While other thoughts circled around the naive plots
Then he found her wish of becoming an astronaut
The space and the aliens
And the unknown universe and battalions
The growing thought until he dropped the journal
The last page now jingled
Leaving him with a curios mind
Just like a child and the memories that bind
So... today I begin my journal.
Where do I begin?
How do I begin?
Without, within... the confines of a page, like a prison wall the surrounds my thoughts.
"You must color within the lines" I recall my kindergarten teacher instructing us, otherwise we won't graduate and move on to first grade.
And at 58, that merciless and foreboding warning I would for anything trade.
So here, in the ether of my thoughts and the confines of ruled paper all is transformed from lined prison bars to the revelation of an inmate who upon receiving his baptism by the Holy Spirit proclaiming... "thank God for prison... for now, I am truly free!"
And as I stare deep into the fragments of this modern papyrus the lines and spaces that confine me begin to escape and I enter through pupil of the "Magic Eye".
It reveals a new world where I have communion with God... and receive the wisdom I desire.
To journal... is to pray...
Dates and their import
I was raised to revere them
they are true benchmarks
of a mineral rich load
littered with capsules of time
The story of a Criminal Grandma
Not a good one
A crime spree old lady
One that is witty, Grandma Dynamite
An Old lady who robs and steals
She uses dynamite to explode
Stealing from banks
Never saying thanks
Even Police warrants her arrest
Grandma Dynamite has a way to contest
It’s all about steal
She doesn’t conceal
Grandma Dynamite follows through on her robbing desire
It’s dynamite acting like fire
Her voice always says,” STAND BACK”
She has a spreadsheet having a numerous criminal track
Grandma Dynamite might capture one’s heart from the start
Take it from Police, she knows how to make her mark
She gets what she steals
Dynamite becomes the Police ordeal
Grandma Dynamite is known around the world
Grandma Dynamite being a criminal celebrity
Explosions in the aftermath.
Autism is always a hard pill to swallow,
Like planting a bullet on the skull
Drifted from life's wonders
As if I've slipped away.
Stigmatized like a cockroach
And knocked back from footy.
With my body soiled and discoloured
Embarrassed and humiliated on the face.
Mama asked me about school
Hoping it was okay,
Yet its darkness doesn't fade away
Like living in the bull pit of Sam Hill.
Then I get angry and fond of the bottle
Having nothing but doubt and shame,
As if suicide is a way out of the pain
And lifting the pressure off my chest.
My heart is like an open book
That only she can write in it
A journal difficult to open
More like a lock with no key
Yet she opened it easily
My heart never gathered courage
To tell her how I feel inside
Yet I have been in love with her
Before she knew me
My heart is like a dungeon
Holding my feelings hostage
Waiting to be discovered
Pirouetting through
the pages of my mind,
placing inked pathways
elegantly timed
a life’s work encapsulated in poetry
wisdom wrought through forgiveness and acceptance
bitter-sweet moments endured and embraced
the journal is nearing completion
it lies open in her gnarled hand
the old pencil stub, now blunt
gossamer petals of
the wintersweet drift
onto the page
its sweet scent
in the
air
You have followed me
from childhood to adulthood
always by my side
you touching my hand
started a fire within heart
my hidden passion
my thoughts and feelings
you've captured on your pages
my words captivate
tattered torn and bruised
you escort me to readings
as spectators snap
others have touched you
but they can't separate us
we have a true bond
our relationship is written in poetry
The story of your stuff poetry contest
Jaymee Thompson
7/31/24
In a nearby village, a man unfurled his manifesto of machinations.
Shotgun blasts echoed the summit until he turned,
cheeks flashing in the biting cold.
A bouquet of flower petals,
explosive roses frozen in time,
sculpture at the snap of one’s fingers.
laughing sun rises,
writing its shadow stories
in forest journals
Satirical Journal Entry #1
Attempting Suicide:
Just The Beginning!
If I killed myself today would anyone notice? Would anyone be at my
funeral?
If so, would they come just ot give themselves peace(piece) of mind over
all the things they took from me?
I guess better late than never!
Hmmm..........
A corpse could always use a loan or a shoulder to cry on.
I wonder how I would be dressed?
Ah....... maybe somehow right before I die I could mangle my face so my casket would stay closed.
-Less opportunity for more disappointment that way.
If I killed myself today all chaos in my mind would end.
I would be in hell for sure
but I know that all this torture on earth would be forgotten.
Yet one question still remains.
Is it worth the damnation?
Yes! I am a selfish !
It’s just pages.
It’s just days.
And “sorry, I forgot to journal days.”
I write about how good it was.
I write about fall leaves and scribble it out.
I write about how embarrassed I am all the time.
What a whimsical thought, I just wrote.
That no one will ever see,
Which makes me sad.
After I brush my teeth, I write.
After I write, I go to bed.
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