I have
no
words left.
.
I have
no
tears left.
.
I have
no
fears left
.
I have
no
thing left.
.
.
.
Just playing with forms, here. Don’t fret. 🙂
I have
no
words left.
.
I have
no
tears left.
.
I have
no
fears left
.
I have
no
thing left.
.
.
.
Just playing with forms, here. Don’t fret. 🙂
No sneaking
No whispers
No clandestine act
Engine patters
Garage door rumbles
Back door slams
Yet a happy greeting yields hours of anxieties.
Something is not working here.
I love the simplicity
of this collection,
but it’s
bordering on saccharine
almost
syrup on my waffles,
but not
quite.
.
.
(I had an official poetry critique by a famous writer/poet today. I have never had my poetry critiqued by anyone ‘in the biz.’ This is the summary of the observations on the 20 or so love poems submitted. 😉 Apparently I should aim to be a *bit* edgier. I think this is quite wonderful, actually).
I’m filled with words
Your words.
My words.
Our words.
A story concocted in laughter.
A story unraveling fears.
A story exploding conjecture.
A story that brings forth your tears.
I am filled with our words
softly spoken
I am filled with our words
shouted loud
I am filled with our words
barely whispered
I am filled with our words
lacking sounds.
Your words.
My words.
Our
story.
.
.
Enjoying a lovely weekend with amazing authors like Charles De Lint, Kathryn Para, Anne De Grace at the Word on the Lake Writers’ Festival. Collected a lovely certificate and cheque for a writing contest prize, as well. 🙂
It’s crowded
in my head
No room for tunes
or truth festooned
across your bed
It’s crowded.
.
Water rushing,
whispering journey,
rippling over rocks
hurrying yearning
for shimmering
ocean.
.
(This water colour painting is half of a pair by Valerie Rogers)
(Got an email from my husband this morning, advising me that he had a late meeting and would be arriving home an hour later than usual. Here is my reply, for your entertainment).
‘
Oh no!
Oh woe!
How will I manage?
What will do?
How can I be
Without you?
Weep!
Cry!
Howl!
Sigh…
‘
‘
‘
‘
‘
(Okay. See you when you get there).
>>smooch<<
‘
He cries when you sees you,
low whimpers of delight.
His frailness is endearing
if it doesn’t keep you up at night.
He rubs his head against you
he murmurs adoration
When you scratch behind his ears
his tail waves in celebration.
His love is pure and when he looks
so deeply in your eyes
You know these daily trysts
will last until he dies.
.
.
(and if he’s as old as my boy is, that may not be as long as one would hope).