Tag: Poetry

Thinking It Through

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

What would happen if I did what I want?

If I wrote instead of working (as if writing is just a big bowl of warm blackberry cobbler with ice cream and not actually work).  If I took all the eggs out of the money-must-be-earned-to-pay-these-bills basket and put them in the passion-lives here-but-you might-starve basket.  If I made a dream a priority.

What would happen if I changed the whole shape and tenor of my life?

If I dared to leap.  If I leapt to dare.  If I measured possibilities for joy instead of the risks of coming up short.

What would happen if one time, just one time, I didn’t analyze, consider, ponder, determine potential outcomes, weigh options, choose wisely?  What would happen if I did not prepare words in advance?  What would happen if I tore up the balance sheet I keep for money?  And grudges.  And me-and-you.

What would happen if I dismantled the system I’ve constructed called “How To Get Through Life” and replaced it with a merry-go-round of pink horses and red dragons and blue dolphins?  If I stopped marching to so many different drummers and danced like a dervish instead.  If I laughed more and growled less.

What would happen if I took the painting of the me I have allowed the world to see, covered it in white, and started again?  With brighter colors this time, bolder strokes, a little less Baroque and a little more Impressionism.

What would happen if I did what I want?

I’ll you what would happen.  I’d be living from my heart.

Springing

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

First the daffodils.

Then the tulips.  Red, yellow, pink. 

Lettuce is crisping in the cool morning air.

The cucumber magnolia sends out tiny shoots at the end of each branch.

The sycamores will make a late grand entrance, but until then there are the oaks, hackberries, and redbuds getting back to business. 

The cedar and cyprus have held a green vigil through the dark death of winter, but now they catch the fever and dance a little perkier in the breeze. 

The pine will start new quills to write the lovesongs of robins and chickadees, bluejays and cardinals.

Lavender, oregano, and mint are suddenly alive again.  

Rosemary dresses up and puts on her perfume. 

Hyacinths are bursting blue.  

 

The wheel will turn and spring will

become summer

become fall

become winter.

          But today is spring,

And I am bursting blue.

Meditation on a Rose

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

I watch you.

So long that I forget about time.

So intently that I forget about space.

I watch you until I forget what you are called.

 

Eventually, I am no longer watching you.  

A watcher is separate, and I have become

the suede of your petals,

the sinew of your stalk,

the sting of your thorn,

the essence of your fragrance,

the photosynthesis of your leaves.

 

For a moment longer than time and

smaller than a split atom

you and I are one.

Seven Seconds of Stunned Silence

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

It’s a timeless moment,

a sharp intake of knowing, a breath of awareness.

The final word comes, either heard or read,

and with it the resolution of a thought

which resonates at a tone too deep for humans to hear –                                             

maybe heard only by sperm whales –

but which we can feel, and which we know rings

a truth truer than the truth known before.

 

My eyes linger at the white space

on the page after the final period –

Or I sit in the quiet after Garrison’s voice

falls away into broadcast silence. 

I stay in that silence.

I stay for a timeless moment,

seven seconds of stunned silence,

in that place where poetry lives.