Tag Archives: poetry

Accompanied

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Often alone, seldom lonely.
My thoughts are with me wherever I go.
They bring creativity, wonder, awe,
memories and wisdom.
And sometimes they bring pain,
sorrow, guilt and fear.
I accept them all, they are what they are.
After all, one can't always be good company.

solitude

Photo #5 for Blogging U’s Photography 101 course. Subject: solitude.

Idle Reward

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I did not work to sow the seed,
or plant the plant or weed the weed.
I did not cause the rain to fall,
the sun to shine, the breeze to breeze.

And yet there wasn’t any need
for me to do such wondrous deeds
to bring about this paradise,
of brilliant blooms and lavish leaves.

Does it seem fair that I should be
the recipient of such majesty?
I let nature take its course, and
my reward grew exponentially.

reward

Weekly Photo Challenge: Reward

Forever Love

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Assignment #8. Prompt: drawer. Form: ode. Device: apostrophe.

I am cheered to see you again, though it was unexpected.
I had thought the drawer to be empty, 
opening it simply on a whim. 
Recklessly abandoned inside this dark coffin, 
you nonetheless thrived, 
gaining esteem despite my neglect.

Bold colors contrast with your diminutive size. 
A seeming contradiction between flamboyant style
and menial purpose.
I am not swayed by either extreme.
My attraction is not based on appearances, 
and I recognize that your inconsequential demeanor 
belies your true power.

More contradictions:
You await my direction, to do my bidding,
and yet it is you who holds sway
over my very basic capacity to communicate.
And though I value you, I must send you away.
Your potential cannot be realized 
while stuffed in a drawer.

So I'm letting you go with one selfish request:
Please do not return to me,
my “forever” postage stamp.

drawer

Sorting Glass — A Poem

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I’ve turned my energies to poetry for a while, as I take a two-week challenge from The Daily Post. I didn’t write this poem for the challenge, but was reminded of it, so I thought I’d share it here:

Sorting Glass

Sorting stained glass into bins,
careful lest I cut myself.
How does one parse the spectrum of light
into specific and separate boxes?

Blue or green?
Translucent or opaque?
Flashed? Rolled? Blown? 
It even defies the line 
between solid and liquid.

Can’t mold it into endless shapes,
like a potter fondling clay on a wheel.
Can’t sand it smooth like a choice piece of wood,
and wipe the fine dust away with gentle strokes.

No. It’s cold and rigid and sharp and brittle.

But when the light finds it,
it warms and dances and morphs 
into myriad shapes and textures and nuances
that no other medium can rival. 
It comes alive. 

It brings me to life.
And as I sort it into bins,
being careful not to cut myself,
I feel its pulse in time with mine.

m3