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.
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.