Friday, 27 June 2014

Poems from May

A person or two has asked about my poems of last month’s challenge…so I’ve selected some that may or may not make sense.

I found the everyday a place extremely ripe with inspiration.  The only problem is it led to a somewhat cryptic style of poetry. For there are moments that have such weight in one’s heart - but mean little to anyone else. You had to be there, in other words


I suppose, however, that could possibly be what poetry is all about?

So welcome to my world. Good luck.


May Day

The sun is liar

Wide eyed wind takes my breath

Spring, when will you come?



Despite the morning warmth, rain comes

And despite the love, which wraps

Close, kind, comforting, blessed;

Loneliness will open the door,

And swirl around my ankles, dark.

It does not care that Truth is mine,

That I can speak the words of every promise

My eyes, it wishes to blind,

My heart, it feels the ice clutch.

And hands, idle on my lap, close to fists.

Yet the mists will not rise

Despite their whiteness turning to gray,

With every passing friend,

I still can open palms and wait,

For God to send a butterfly.


Somewhere, wars, the blasphemy rages on

Somewhere the living fight to live

And the dying seek to rest in peace.

Somewhere the wind only moves ash

Chalky tears of destruction and it will not cease.


But that, you baby there in overalls;

Need not touch the blessing of blue eyes.

Let the wind move curls instead

And let you point in peace, over there

A roguish cat stalks the squirrel.



After winter’s cold, toes trapped

It is good to feel the grit.

And mud splashes up my leg

As I try to jump the creek.


Low Country Boil

He’s chuckling, the bearded cook

And brawny arms he brings to bear,

Stirring, sweating, amid the pots.

The two backs bend, to lift and spill

And mouths drop in the cloud of steam,

Like supper, as it tumbles to the table.

Corn, rolling over sausages and

Potatoes, softly breaking in their skins.

A blessing said, the cook must smile

For joy is in the sharing.

And the spoon, it rattles down,


In an empty pot.


  1. Thank you Margaret. I am vastly flattered when you compliment such things!!

  2. Olivia, you're such an amazing writer! Poetry is painting with words, and I could see such amazing things while reading yours! I especially liked "Alone," and these particular lines within it: "Loneliness will open the door, and swirl around my ankles, dark." What was your place of inspiration, may I ask? I should really find one too, because my basement hardly provokes a lot of poetic thought!

  3. Thank you, Hailey! I found that inspiration came in the funniest places, all month long. But most of my poetry was written at the end of the day, on my bed. Nothing fancy! :)