Capable of becoming

The prompt for Poets and Storytellers United is: “Don’t be afraid to start over again. This time, you’re not starting from scratch, you’re starting from experience.”

Capable of becoming

You walked the familiar path
when it suddenly turned to mud.
You wonder where it will lead,
whether you must begin again.

Yet you trudged through winters,
learned the language of storms,
watched the wind change its mind
a thousand times.

Think of what you gathered
from your mistakes,
how you found tenderness
in the cracks you tried to hide,

You are not empty-handed.
You can walk any path.
Let your footsteps pause to listen.
You do not have to be afraid.

Your road may take a different turn,
but nothing has been lost.
You are not starting from scratch.
You start from experience.

And this time,
you know something
you could never have known before:

You are capable
of becoming.

The breath between us

 The prompt for Poets and storytellers United is : Looking through glass

The breath between us

I look through the glass
separating me from the world,
on the outside looking in.

I watch my reflection.
My eyes seem empty,
my soul unable to find itself
within my gaze.

I open the window.

A gust of wind enters,
and suddenly I remember
I am alive.

Perhaps the air is more than air.

It fills the sky,
carries the warmth of the sun
the silver light of the moon.

It has wandered oceans,
crossed mountains,
stirred the leaves of distant forests.

And as it enters me,
The window of my inner world
opens to moonlight
gathering in my eyes,
and finds my waiting soul.

The haze within my gaze
lifts like morning mist,
desolation dissolving
into something wider.

I draw a breath,
and for a moment
I am no longer looking out at life

I am part of it

When I disappear from here

 The following poem was written to the prompt exit from our local poetry group

When I disappear from here

When I disappear from here,
I'd like to make a dramatic exit.

I bow to you and hope
I've left something behind:

a smile tucked into a corner,
a memory that turns up unexpectedly,

a trail of glitter
that refused to wash away,

a poem that found
a secret door to your heart,
a window to your mind.

Maybe a hug.
A hand I held
when your words stumbled
from your lips.

I hope that when I stood
waving my torch like a madwoman,

you caught a spark
and carried it onward
without even knowing.

And if I nudged a shadow aside,
to help one small star
remember how to shine,

I shall leave
on the wings of the wind.

So thank you
for the lessons and laughter,
the company and harmony,
the kindnesses, large and small.

And after I've dropped my mic,
turn up the music,
laugh too loudly,
pop the corn
and keep the spark moving.

What spring did

The prompt for Poets and story tellers United was memories and dreams
I focussed on the memory part though 

What spring did 

A memory decomposing like a leaf.
I gather fragments,
bits of earth
but also of beauty
of what spring did,
that timid green
the blossoming,
the opening of a heart.

My mind stretches,
trying to fetch something
a fragrance,
lyrics forgotten,
but the melody,
the allegro,
still dancing inside me.

I carry it
as I carry all life within me.

When I spread the net
over the flowers
to gather the caterpillars
of the past;

Have they become
butterflies
inside me

or is it simply that my eyes
captured their colours
when the light
climbed the flowers?

 

Beyond the bend

The prompt for Poets and storytellers United is: if an angel were to give you a message, what do you suppose it might be? 

Well I can imagen what I would like to ask an angel and I suppose the angels message would be:

Beyond the bend

I could tell you what lies beyond the stars
but you would stop looking at them.
Maybe you don't need to know

how the spider chooses
where to cast its thread,

or where the hidden pathways lead
beyond the bend in the road.

Perhaps it is enough

to trust the way you go,
venture into the unknown,
listen for the voice beneath your thoughts.

And if you step into a puddle
watch it splash,
and smile.

Noise

Poets and Storytellers United asked us to write about a type of noise, literal or metaphorical.

Noise

We talked,
exchanged polite lines,
but beneath the words
a noise was hiding,

like the hum of a washing machine
where shirts turn
behind a glass window.

They can't escape.
They tumble and shake,
you can only sense
the colours they carry:

the black of anger,
the grey of disappointment,
the green of envy,
thoughts left unspoken,
swept under the carpet.

The noise of small red irritations
crawling like worms
through the wet insides of us.

I tied a ribbon around it
and let life be messy
let it be noisy.

Then I stepped outside,
closed the door behind me,
and breathed the crisp air.

Sky vapour still rested
on the flowers.

In the silence,
I softened.