You gently bump your head against my hand softly at first then become more forceful When I don’t respond you touch your nose to mine When I still don’t respond you gently tap my arm becoming more insistent with each tap I reach out to touch your head you purr I stop You reach out […]
Writing is something I do alone. It is a time to think my own thoughts in my own head. Explore my soul my feelings my hopes my desires. My writing is not yours to claim, to scrutinize, to devour with your prejudice and criticism. I don’t want someone over my shoulder reading what I write,
They say the creative soul is stifled in an environment of misery and despair but they are wrong It thrives there under the surface. every abuse every cruelty makes it stronger building power it rises up like a phoenix from the flame finding voice in the silence speaking out telling truth to the world.
The whir of the air conditioner The hum of the refrigerator The deafening sound of silence Straining to hear the echos of children playing The twitter of birds The conversations of friends The sounds of a life My life Reaching out to the echos of the past I am surrounded by walls Collapsing The world
That is my goddess calling me I am of the sea and the sea is of me The constancy of the tide Rolling in and out In an eternal dance with the moon Stars shining in the sand Twinkles of silica formed years ago Microscopic shells of a thousand lives Brought together as one Caressed
This week’s prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “-eat.” Use the word “eat” or add letters to it to make a different word. Don’t cheat! When I saw this prompt the first thing that came to my mind was I wonder if I can write a poem using nothing but words containing “eat”. Eat
Effortlessly they misappropriate misinterpret miss the point Make-up like blackface and dredlocks ironic racism hipster terms playing bluegrass in Brooklyn pretending to be poor wearing flannel and eating vegan. They laugh at real culture call us dumb rednecks have coolie themed parties wearing headdresses at Coachella and boots to Bonnaroo. Cinco de Mayo is only a
Words from my soul don’t easily flow from this pen to this paper They swirl around in my head through my eyes, they drip like tears rain falling from the sky landing on leaves of paper finding a path down to the ground they fall scattered and random creating pattern out of chaos a pattern
