Three deep breaths, palms together,
Here in her room, or elsewhere, she may
Rise and take. A habit she has formed,
Even as most of her ideas, ideals,
Even her so cherished findings, hard found,
Deducted, inducted, reasoned, debated, polished,
Even those most like faith, as taught her,
Even those most like science, measured, observed,
Peeled one by one: a human desert, she.
By three deep breaths, she centers somehow: how?
Reality itself a question she's no longer asking,
Eating and sleeping themselves provisional.
All she bothers to call caring is now to listen
To breath, room sounds, outside sounds, to
Her friends, their worries unpacked, their voices
Spending both hope and pain. She bows.
She likes red in September: viney maple, poison oak;
Her plum trees dress well in it. Where she lives, all
Else goes brown. Except the dog roses
Leavening hedges with their hips. She stuffs these
In her pockets on every walk, then does research,
Kindling a ken of potions, liqueurs, oils.
Easily, drying comes to mind; to prep for that
She'll split each pod and rake away hard seeds,
Removing them to her freezer to stratify;
Else they might not emerge come spring. She
Digs out also myriad tiny hairs,
Irritants if retained. It's a slow business,
Not for the impatient, which well describes her;
She know of this but means to tough it out.
Each hip's a silent mantra: she'll
Push, pull, twist, scrape, sort, and set aside
The emptied husks for drying or infusing.
Eventually the pile is done, just as light fades.
My eyes, she tells herself, are getting on,
But this I can still do. I'll make rose tea;
Evening will fill my cup of mindfulness.
Really, there's nothing more than what there is.
Paddy Nolan, Trinity College law school grad, moved to Calgary Alberta Canada in the early 1900's.
Paddy travelled to clients and court via his cart .Driving alongside the Bow River, the horse shied. Paddy ended up in the river; his cart stayed with the horse . Paddy was due in court in less than an hour.
Paddy made it to court on time, wrapped in nothing but a blanket. When asked, Paddy replied,
'I'm here, your honour, to present the naked truth.'
get prompt
feel language strain, slice, split containment and split
worry
read clock
bury self in time, in work, in distraction
return to prompt
the word is noise is frozen fire razor-edged
worry
slice ribboned mind to bleed words through
worry more
words flood torrent drowns
write
erase
drowning, weep
write
erase
panic
repeat until there's no time
breathe shallow
post
panic
repeat
@haikushack@poetry@bookstodon wow I had absolutely no idea something like this was happening for so long. It doesn't make any logical sense to me as to why this has been happening. I mean what is the thought process? Poetry is a form of creativity, just like prose. It shouldn't be devalued like this. I personally think poetry is so much more difficult to create and understand. How is this not obvious to people who expect poets to give away their hard work for free.
Obviously I want my poems to be read & respected, but I don't think it's weird or unreasonable to want to be paid for my labour.
As a fiction writer, I am used to writing being grossly underpaid for the work involved, but the idea that it's somehow gauche to expect to be paid at all...
Poetry is labour. It has a concrete value. People should pay for it, and at least some of that money should go to the person who wrote it!
In the end, it would be bizarre to leave public posts with a positive desire to avoid comments and to see them as intrusive @stevencudahy & @Aphelion. If they become sufficiently personal, one has to be careful that such comments are wanted, I agree. But, generally...
[Psst... Michelle... whisper in case he hears us, but when are we going to hijack another of Steven's threads with more daftness about big sticks...??? 🤣]
@fkamiah17 I have! My daughter was eight or so, we built a blanket fort in the living room and an imaginary campfire in the center and listened to it together (not all in one go). Magic.
@fkamiah17 Oh, that's wonderful! I'm afraid our homemade Anglo-Saxon village was more like Robert Louis Stevenson's "Land of Counterpane" 😂. It's a testament to the poem that we were nevertheless utterly transported by hearing it aloud.
Hello, fellow fediverse poetry lovers! Like the title suggests, who are your favorite poets? I figured a post like this could be fun and could help us all discover new poets!...
The following poem covers the my journey of self-discovery and Transformation The vivid and poignant #Poetry captures the profound odyssey of embracing one's authentic self.
Through evocative verses, the poem navigates the struggles, personal courage, and ultimate triumph of a trans woman's gender transition.
An unobtainable dream, bottom surgery's cost, a mountain to climb. A generous benefactor's kindness intervened. A clinic in Thailand, a path set to explore. Living my life with a philosophy that it never hurts to ask for more, a proposal is sent.
God finally answered my prayers my destiny is finally unfolding, No longer fearing rejection, but seeking hope's embrace. With every step taken, I have a new chapter to face. The plane flies across the world, aloft in skies both vast and blue.
My destination is transformation, my long journey I still pursue. Airport gates and bustling crowds, my heart aflutter. Embarking on my quest, there are dreams I still must uncover. My eyes focused on the horizon, the world blossoms like new. To Thailand I ventured, my heart open and wide. Airport bound, I stood waiting for my ride with my dreams in my eyes. The flight touches down, all is right in my life.
@Aphelion You should really have a listen to Vilma Flood! If you haven't heard her already. She just leaped into my mind when reading your poem again. A great studio live performance.
I never understood wind.
You know, I know
windmills very much.
I have studied it
better than anybody
else. It’s very expensive.
They are made in China
and Germany mostly.
—Very few made here, almost none,
but they are manufactured, tremendous
—if you are into this—
tremendous fumes. Gases are
spewing into the atmosphere. You know
we have a world
right?
~ D. #Trump
12/21/2019 #poem#poetry#triggerwarning
