Troublesome
I love to write poetry,
but beginning it is always troublesome;
as though the poetry bouncer is leery of letting me
into the poetry club.
Try and start;
bus passes partial blue;
leaves, trees, green;
yellow dress floats by;
chicken smells
slide through the air
leaving a rumble in my stomach.
Seeing me juggle words,
the bouncer lets me in.
Allowing my heart to Breathe
My face,
molded into a serious mask,
fashioned by my social anxiety,
greets people
like ‘en guarde’ in fencing.
Wary of loosing an eye,
they also slip on a
mask
of distance,
unaware that
anxious pressure
configured
my mask,
not a desire to fence.
I am trying
to take it off,
put it down,
let it gather dust.
On occasion,
how nice it is,
to get it off my face;
allowing my heart to breath
and paint my face
with feelings
undiluted by fear.
Experimental poem
I am trying out to see
if WindowsWriter works for me
so i write in Writer
test to see if my words can be tighter
but at last i finish
and leave it be
and see if writer works for me.
Dancing Flows From Your Fingers
Christmas days
swirl about,
wrapped in
carols,
gift-ing,
coloured lights,
santa’s,
card filling,
and wrap sessions.
Remember to touch
all these
and feel
the joy
that is a part of them.
Look well.
Be child-like:
dance with snow flakes,
sing along with white christmas while you shop,
spin in excitement at
multicoloured gifts
under pine branches,
smile with joy
at red lights
glowing in the park.
Let go
and experience wonder;
let your adult heart
be softened
so that
dancing flows
from your fingers
and joy
shines from you eyes
into the worlds spaces.
Crackly, Crunching sort of way
I must get the dishes done
and then go out
to walk beneath the sun,
and over leaves,
and under trees,
who laid the leaves
upon the ground,
which is not their usual place
they are usually in the space
between the branches
of the trees,
but with the cold,
and lack of light,
the leaves have now
been put to flight
and flown,
in regal slowness down
to lie in colour
on the ground
carpeting my way
as i walk.
as i walk
some of the leaves
talk,
in a crackly, crunching
sort of way,
as if to say,
“Please do not walk on me
it’s really quite
uncomfortable, you see;
your shoes are hard
the ground is rock
it really comes as quite a shock
to be trod on in such a way
on such a beautiful
sunny day.”
Estrogen doesn’t stain
Feminine calls,
as woman walk past,
showering me with estrogen.
Girl-friend longing.
i see happiness
in this,
flowing from shared lives.
Go for it, i tell myself.
Estrogen doesn’t stain.
(poem altered on nov13,2o1o)
