"It takes a real heart to write forevermore." By Poet
Here I sit with pen in hand,
staring at a blank notepad.
I need many letters,
to make my words come alive.
I thought I was a writer,
but as I sit here I wonder.
Poems come from the love of writing,
writing about the past or about the present.
Poems can be true or false,
some will make you cry and others will make you laugh.
True writers write from their heart,
as the ink rushes through their veins.
Now the words flow faster then I can write,
don't think, just write.
The writer and reader are both in love,
in love with letters, words, sentences and reading.
Now I am writing away,
forevermore.
I love that added tenderness in my body each month;
it's like I incarnate the spring myself:
delicate bloosoms, that juiciness,
ready to bear and bring a new life on the Earth.
But the pollination never happen,
because my husband died four years ago.
Thus, instead of adoring the fetus in my womb,
I'm adoring my poetry on my notepad:
from my pregnant mind they comes out to fill my life
and reduce the emptiness of not being a mother of a human offspring.
My little poet, go outside and sit
in your little corner
get your little pencil
and notepad
like a good little poet
and sketch out your little stanzas
free verse or rhyme
whichever you choose
My little poet,
get out your crayon pencils
and choose any of your favorite colors:
red for similes,
blue for metaphors
yellow for hyperboles
green for onomatopoeias
orange for personification
purple for alliterations
My little poet,
your little creation will one day
encompass the reminiscent
of your vibrant, youthful spirit
Bound to notepad page
Mind locked in a cage
Margins rule insight
Cropping left and right
Bias frames the view
Cutting truth askew
Write myself in this poem?
Like my own magazine with pictures of me.
Everlasting.
Weird poetry.
If I wrote down my own name?
It might turn me into a lily pad to hop onto.
Let my hair down into the words.
Let the door burst open with me and my notepad.
Extrapolate.
Expand what I know about being in a poem.
Plaid patterns and I like them.
Twitching and don’t feel anything.
Except pages.
Pen and ink of mine.
Write myself in this poem?
I’d have to be myself in a river or swamp.
Write myself in this poem?
I’d have to be…
A croaking toad.
Just for now.
In the quagmire ooze of daily trudge,
where the mire of monotony
clings cold, congealed in sorrow,
it takes only a spark of inspiration,
to transform an ordinary morsel
into a shimmering taste of sheer joy.
Echoes that entices, suffices.
I carry my sample bag handy,
stocked with my pet peeves in reverse.
Tiny things that you take time
to notice, and create space for,
that bring gemstones of joy shining:
The smell of rain, with storm's first drops.
The wispy waft of coffee, freshly brewed.
A rare bird sighted or heard, out of season.
A few chords of a beloved song.
Warm socks from the dryer.
A wink, glace, a tiny half-backed smile.
First touch of warm hands.
Fresh bread from the oven.
Noticing my things I placed in extraordinary ways.
A doodle scribbled on my notepad
Inspiring word or phrases recorded.
Doing things at half-speed, to spool like honey.
In all these little ways on long days
these echoes entice, suffice.
No longer can I write for soup
Not even a poem on poop
I'm cheating I'm using AI
If challenged of course I'll deny!
Aliens whisked my brain away ...
Was normal until yesterday!
My notepad is now firmly shut
I'm bereft, my brain is kaput!
Onigiri is another level,
I don't know a place called Seattle,
I took a ladle,
Put it on a table,
I don't know where I'm going at,
I took a sat,
I see myself as a lad,
I don't want to be sad,
I took a notepad,
From the wad,
I stare at the ceiling,
As if I'm on a sailing,
I am not wailing,
But I am piling,
All the reasons I left behind,
For now, I am not resigning,
From what I am trying to define,
The meaning of refine,
I remind myself the since,
I don't take a Hinch,
Even a sinch,
Over something that is so clingy,
To hold onto a blingy,
My burger is zingy,
With a taste I hold onto,
With a pinch of cilantro,
It is my intro,
I keep on going,
For what I am doing,
I love myself in this song,
Is this what I am looking for?
Until my hands are sore,
To the day, I want to do the chores,
Look, it is my other course,
I try to find the source,
Here is my sauce.
A lover and a brother are heavy.
Recounting the contents of life is work.
A vessel holding unaccountable dust
may be volumes for a biographer’s notepad.
“I miss she real bad!”
Whittled words.
Ponderous, leaky expression
surrendered by gross vulnerability,
and maybe a short lexicon.
A lover and a brother
and their handheld tomb,
this wild man pair in tropical print-
cotton tops mirroring loopy island ladies
under pineapple/banana coronets-
standing shoeless upon burning shores,
bearing their dead love,
gone sooner than hope had promised...
fish feed in a jar.
Busy as a bee
Sticky as a notepad
Ending at roadside.
It's here
I dump my thoughtful odes
The words unchecked
As brain downloads
This snow white
Electric paper faux
Is where my heart-felt
Ravings go
I tap, delete
I type and scroll
Construct a rhyme
Pithy and droll
The black on ivory
Stark and crude
To deeper feelings
Will allude
So as this self
Effacing track
Develops with it's
Clicky clack
I meditate
On all before
Invite them in
As if by door
To life and love
To hope and loss
To friendships, new
To birth or cross
With thankful heart
And no disdane
For poet's muse
Doth still remain
If only you knew the struggles I have had,
many were very sad.
My kind and loving dad,
knew I was never bad.
I should have kept a notepad,
about the people that made me mad.
If only I had not worn plaid,
I could now sell it in a for sale ad
I look at you, you're like the sun
You warm my face, see you're the one
Who makes me smile like no one can
And to this day I recall when
The first time was I saw you sing
'Twas then my winter turned to spring
Such beauty up there on the stage
Since then I've read you page by page
To get an understanding of
What makes you you, and then came love
That blossomed from the dreams I've had
Of you and I, my mind's notepad
Is filled with poems tried and true
And most I post, a way for you
To read about my deepest thoughts,
To know for sure it's you I've sought
I keep this tucked away inside
My love for you is far and wide
It covers every street I cross
I tell you uno, you tell me dos
You know I know, I know you know
But I still like to tell you so...ILU
With a pen she wrote a story,
Stretched across her old notebook.
About a girl who wanted to be noticed,
And a boy who refused to look.
And she wept and wept and wept,
Leaving an inky, tear-sodden page,
But she swept the issue under a rug,
And brought it all down to their age.
With the same pen she wrote,
This time on a newer, nice notepad.
About her dropping, declining grades,
And how her parents were so mad.
And she tried and tried and tried,
To hold her emotions behind her eyes,
And she realised she would never be good enough.
No matter how hard she tried.
With a drag and a puff of smoke,
And something alcoholic between her lips,
She wrote drunkenly on a piece of paper,
About how her life had come to this.
And she winced and winced and winced,
At the messy drawings on her am,
How some were faded, how some were fresh.
How she could cause herself such harm.
With her crimson wrists the subject,
And a piece of broken glass.
She wrote her final story,
Before her body would finally pass.
And she stayed silent, silent, silent.
She was a stature laying in red.
She thought
“What use to words on paper have
When I am already
Truly
Dead.”
Khandahar is where all began IED ignited
my skull in the blink of an eye Kabul came
into view as the smoke clears my body was
being rushed through tunnels the hot sun burning
my flesh sand gravel stuck in my pores I remember
tears on my cheeks that burned like acid rain DOA
DOA medic screamed I thought are they talking about me
while my eye ball hung out the eye socket my nasal arch
was crushed my eye socket crushed my brain hurt
voices muffled as my body lay there stay with me
stay with me I was rushed off again through another
tunnel my brain hurt lights were shining in my eye
I could not speak where am I my mouth opened
nothing came out my vision could not focus am I alive
panic set in I need to know can I be I losing my sight
medic passes me notepad and pen here dear just write
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