I misread the schedule and arrived early this evening, to the Bridgewater International Poetry Festival. This festival started on Wednesday, with some inviting workshops during the day.
My day job meant I couldn’t attend any of those, sadly. Upon my arrival at the registration table this evening, I was greeted with, “You’re the last one!”
Continue reading “Poetry Festival”
My boys and I left today on a trip to visit my dad in S.C. I miss the opportunity to write with all that time on the road, but I can still create as I drive. Today I formulated some poems, scratching them down on a notepad on my lap with one hand. They aren’t very legible on the paper, of course, but since they came from my brain, I can still decipher them.
I was recently introduced to cinquains, a poetry form, on Fanstory.com. One version is a stanza composed of 5 lines, consisting of 2-4-6-8-2 syllables with no rhyme scheme. Other versions include rhyme schemes, but the ones I have written thus far do not. Here are the ones from today. They are each separate poems.
syllables for poems
needing to have the exact count
watch Dancing With the Stars
fascinated by stars’ dancing
hearing my boys
laughing in the back seat
I savor the moment of joy
wanting escape from doubts
striving instead to know I am
two, four, six, eight
followed by a two
each line carefully counted out
I have struggled to write about what is on my my heart and mind in this place, concerning Mom’s wreck. Sometimes my heart speaks best through poetry. Here are three poems that address facets of this. The second poem mentions blood, so be forewarned, if that is an issue for you.
At the scene of the wreck
they would not let me
where I could not see.
My view was the
bottom of the van.
Was this really happening?
Continue reading “Mom’s Accident, Pieces of My Heart”
I dropped a box of pasta today
it was an amazing sight to see
vermicelli was everywhere
it even bounced off my knee
I looked around and surveyed the mess
but then I noticed something
criss-crossing patterns of loveliness
beauty that made my heart sing
Smile on my face I bent to the task
of collecting those strands near and far
I thought of spilled milk, I did not cry
Pasta, I bid you “au revoir.”
1…or 2? 1…or 2?
Look at the blinking light
The other eye
Wait here for the doctor
Memorizing the room with time
Wishing I’d brought something to do
Where is the doctor?
Maybe they forgot me!
I’ve heard of that happening
I strain to listen
Is that workers wrapping up for the day?
Will I have to call 9-1-1?
Continue reading “At the Eye Doctor”
Boxes lie scattered on the floor
Memories once locked safely away
To freely come out
To be remembered
Continue reading “The Unopened Box “
Sometimes I am surprised by my younger self and what she saw or understood. That was before times of numbing myself to feeling. In some ways, my young self was wiser than some later versions of myself. Today I rediscovered this poem that I wrote. Judging by the handwriting and grammar, I think I was in middle school or early high school. It gives me hope for my writing now. If I could find depth then, I certainly should be able to tap into greater life experience and expression now.
Can you see into those eyes?
To the bitterness and defiance?
Look hard, for it is there.
Continue reading “Eyes”
(I wrote this poem when I was a kid. I was probably 12-14 years old at the time.)
We felt we should be outside
in the night
instead of inside.
I slipped outside
and was joined
by my friend. Continue reading “Night”
Young ladies taking group selfies
Young man studying his Bible
Trying to work on my book
Two college girls discussing the medical field
A business meeting
Friends catching up over coffee
Woman working on laptop
Man jogging by
She looks familiar
in Shenandoah Joe
top photo by Carli Jeen (via Unsplash)