February Art Challenge: Write A Poem

Have To

I can feel it moving,
The blister on the bottom of my foot.
I know it’s going to hurt when it pops.
And it does…
It hurts more than I even imagined.
I walk on.
Not because I want to,
Because I have to.

The wind brings cool, salt tinged air
Across sunburnt shoulders.
With each step the pain dulls,
But I’m limping to compensate
Creating tears on my toes.
I walk on.
Not because I want to,
Because I have to.

I’m lonely here.
Pictures are the only companions
To memories better shared.
I should call a cab and go to the room –
Sleep away the hurt.
Still, I walk on
Because I want to.
Because I have to.

Going Through Spurts

*just another stream of conscious rambling attempt at poetry, clarity, staving off the inevitable blahs I feel coming on*

I shouldn’t be surprised, yet I always am. Trying desperately to find a bright spot in the encroaching gloom.
Rainy days breed rainy thoughts, and I am flooded in them.
I can plainly see the positive and the good. It shines and, at times, truly consumes me.
Then the clouds roll in.
There is no thunder.
No lightening.
Just gray from horizon to horizon.
It’s cold…and lonely…and my best bravado cannot keep the shading effect away.
I’m not allowed to feel like this…not good, not bad.
The brave face has to be put on.
Everyone needs to know that you are fine.
You are making it.
Nothing bothers you.
It’s not true. That doesn’t matter, though.
This won’t last. It’s a moment to wallow in.
Float with the gray waters. Let your heart hurt just a bit.
I’ll land in the shallows and get to my feet.
Walking back to where I was, I’ll verbally kick myself for allowing the hurt and gray to win again – especially after so long of holding them off!
Then, somehow, I’ll walk a little further up from where I was when those clouds rolled in and took me away.
Bathed in light and then half light.
In small spurts I move forward.
On and on to regions unknown…
Paths untread….
All in spurts.

Let’s See Where This Goes

An exercise in free writing and a needed outlet.

It’s so easy to give out the pieces
Of a heart worn on one’s sleeve
You can’t cover it up
The outline is too obvious
Generosity is confused for weakness
Trust mistaken for being naive

Still, I’d rather believe than be cynical
Fill missing pieces with patches
And have hope that there is something
Hopefully better
But something


Pieces are available
Easily accessible, freely given
It seems no matter how many times. they break
How many times they are rejected
The pieces stay open and bare
Open to possibility
Open to chance
Open to hurt

Before I Put On My Chucks

OK…one more thing before I go off to ring in the New Year.


I had every intention
Of wearing the tight skirt
And the tight shirt.

I had every intention
Of facing the night full of possibility
And throwing caution to the wind.

Instead, I wanted a skirt with pockets
And a shirt more fun than low cut.
I decided on comfort instead of sex.

Besides, why can’t practicality
And whimsy
Be attractive?

It is.
Tie up the Chucks,
It’s time to go.


Really, It’s Okay

*random poem of sorts*

You really don’t have to pretend
The pleasantries, the promises
They aren’t needed
You don’t believe me
You’ll promise to call
You say you still care
It’s okay
You don’t
Life moves us along
People change
I’ll still check in
I’ll still reach out
If you don’t reach back
Well, that’s your call
I will walk my way
With my hand open
Just in case you pass by again

Attack of the Random Writing!

I’ve been afraid of loss.
Loss of friendships, loss of love, loss of dreams –
Keep the status quo and lose nothing.
Risk everything?
I did
And I lost.
In that loss, I gained –
Surprised that the equation worked that way.
Keep the status quo and lose nothing?
Risk everything!
Soon enough.

Random Writing Exercise – Poetry?

I’m not sure where this is coming from and, to be honest, it’s probably lame poetry (never my strong suit).  Still, I wanted to try something and this memory has been on my mind because it’s a nice one from a long time ago – nearly ten years! Crazy how time flies.
Hope you like it or, at the very least, it doesn’t make you hate my writing.

Hot and sticky best describes
that summer night.
We held hands and gazed at the summer stars;
pulling the blanket up to hide from wandering eyes.
When you said you wanted to marry me
someday, on that spot,
my heart wanted to believe you.
My mind knew it was an empty statement, made in a moment that couldn’t last.

Promises made in the dark disappear in the silver of early morning light.
Nothing hurts quite like a broken heart, except one that doesn’t mend.
It’s taken time.
The scar is visible.
The wound is closed, only opening when torn by memory.

Order of the Autumn Battle

For once, Labor Day has heralded not only the traditional end of summer but also the meteorologic beginning of fall here in the Bluegrass. Usually, the summer burns right on through the holiday weekend into the later weeks in September and the 100 degree highs of Saturday gave no indication to the contrary. Abruptly, however, fall decided summer had had enough fun in the sun and made it’s presence known flaunting 60 degree highs and a Seattle-esque drizzle here to stay for the week.

One of my favorite escapes when I lived at home in my first semester of college was to walk a trail back behind the once tobacco fields, into the woods, and across a mini ridge to a point overlooking a valley to the next ridge top. I used to walk it for exercise, for my dog Josie’s companionship, for the isolation of the lichen bed, or the thought-drowning locusts. I only shared the area with those who really mattered. It was in the persistent heat sitting in the moss that I wrote this poem eight years ago.

Order of the Autumn Battle

I made the pilgrimage with pagan’s eyes
Four days before the Harvest Moon.
Bore the scourges and lances of the gauntlet path
In bloody homage to forest sprites.
Perched on a point in the arms of a martyr,
I took vigil and waited for the answer tides to come.
Drunk on sacred fumes
Of fermenting past,
I heard the Priests’ whispers:
Rumors of defrocment
Passed down by sky of primal ochre hue.
An oath swore by all, united
To don the warrior dress
Cast off the demure greens
In defiance and in favor
Of the scarlet-yellow
Tunics of the Golden War to come.
Amid the battle cry of locust drums,
I stole east to tamer lands
As the blood spilled at my back.

Printed in Inscape 2007

One of the original blog challenges we considered for the Errant Easel project was to post two works from the past, one of which you were still proud and one of which you weren’t. I immediately thought of this poem for my pride piece. However, on review of the material with eyes nearly a decade more well-read, I see the weakness in the poem end, the lack of actual development, the awkwardness of the last line and a lot of awkward grammar. And I posted it here anyway. One of the hardest things for me to get comfortable with sharing on this blog is my writing. So what if I can’t paint a photorealistic flower, I’m not a painter. But if I can’t write exactly what I mean and evoke the appropriate emotion from the audience then I feel the failure much more acutely, because if I have any creative strengths they are granted by the pen. However, If I refuse to write, paint or experiment for fear of imperfection, I’m never going to get anything done. So there, if I can post this, I can post almost anything. May the writing commence and the anxiety subside with practice!