Waiting for it

standing up
to write a poem
at 2 in the
morning
waiting for it to
knock me off my feet
back into bed

Being Open to Being Filled

I have started to practice enough listening
to sense when the words are about to appear
it's become another sense
a natural knowing
like when you need to use the bathroom
or get sick
but nicer and different
more hopeful
anticipating a filling of space
a gush of words
birthing a poem out of the ether

june 11/15

~~~~~~~~

all the people
in one bed
the cats
in a basket

trying to make an
empty house
feel
full

Courting the Familiar - Writing Down the Bones

it has happened again. smoothly. gracefully this time.
it's not like i was prepared - no paper no pencil as the view inspired the voice that brings the words to the surface that make my poems breathe.
but this time was different.
i spoke up. i asked for help. and i received from a child a piece of paper and a found pen - literally found on the still frozen playground.
and so it began again.
like knowing your gas tank just needs gas in it to work.
i'm working again.

________________

recorded while on duty:

sun shines over/on the icy horizon
trees puffed up like fur on
a dog
left outside to find its own
breakfast

trees huddled around the frozen field
kids skipping beside snowbanks
sad remains in the background - abandoned snowmen
their carcasses melted into the ground
returning to landscape

my fingers are turning into
icicles as I record these images
before they melt into memory

soccer ball chipping
across the frozen field
stoic pilons frozen in space

hoodies barely able to
contain body heat
long enough to
release the ball

March 25, 2015
S. V.


inspired by reading Natalie Goldberg's "Writing Down the Bones"
and feeling the ripple effect of SARK's wordplay:
Practice
Love
And
Yielding
and by my husband who has started to archive/record all lyrics with music to keep them alive and breathing.


my next bold move to continue the courting is to put a notebook and pen into a pocket of each of my coats!
:)

Making Fossils

Making Fossils

I’m getting old(er)
I choose to leave the corny words in the couch
With the lost change
Hoping they will bring childish delight
To someone else
When they are rediscovered



{Feb 2009}

Late Night Treat

Late night treat

If it doesn’t gush out
It’s not blood
Or true

Is it bloody false?

If it doesn’t kill you
It’s not horrible
Or painful

Is it horribly beautiful?

Can we mince words like meat
And get something no one will eat?

Do words get all sweet and sour in your mind
But taste funny on your tongue?

Is figurative dance an aphrodisiac?
Or an act of defiance
By those who don’t dance, thank you very much.

What does it make me if I’d rather make up words
Than my face?
Rather play with words than drugstore dreams?

Can we sleep on it or
Do you get in your bed while I seem to float above mine
Testing deeper shores of metaphor and rhyme

Reason always seems to arrive
Before turning on my coffee pot in the morning

But then again I can be terribly polite
In my
Caffeinated state

Feed me words for breakfast
And watch me soar

Housework

Housework

The wind is unrelenting in its
Request
Blowing into each open window
Like it belongs among the
Dust and debris
Of my half packed house

It feels urgent that i
Stand firm
Bending like a tree
Stay on the path
But accept the resistance
That I keep facing

To be present
Experience the swirling chaos
And the calm centre

To start moving forward
Aware of what’s holding me
Together

Not regretting change
Or chance
Feeling momentum building
But keeping daily tasks going
At a steady pace

Load the washer
Clean the dishes
Dust the mirror

Reflect only on what I can
See in front of me
Here
In me

It’s hard to see forever
With your eyes shut

I'm Not Stuck in a Poem

I’m not stuck in a poem

I’m stuck in a life
That tried to
Build a house with
A fence
Leaving the poems
Outside

When I opened the
Windows
And the dust
Cleared
It was the poetry
That came beaming
In with the sun