Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles! I am still going strong with my March Poetry Challenge. Although there have been quite a few days when I’m nearly certain that I have zero creative thoughts left in my brain, I have managed to write 18 poems thus far. What’s more, I am learning about myself and writing through this experience. Most importantly, I am truly enjoying the process. Here are five more of my poems for your perusal.
I sit down to write
A staring contest begins
Me versus the blank page
Its wordless whiteness
A funhouse mirror
Distorting my image
Reflecting back to me
What if I cannot write
What if I write and my words are rubbish
What if the supplies of outstanding metaphors
The reservoirs of gut-wrenching, soul-stirring turns of phrase
Have been exhausted by the real writers
The word-wranglers who came before me
Who stole my brilliant thoughts
Before I even had the chance to think them
What if the words that belong here
Are visiting someone more worthy than me
I stare myself down in the absence of words
Take a deep breath
Touch my pen to the paper
Fracture the doubt
Sometimes my kitchen is a sacred space.
Sometimes vegetables are more than mere produce.
Sometimes I cook without a second glance at the recipe,
Stirring, seasoning, tasting, amending,
Eager for a challenge that can be overcome
In a most delicious manner without tears,
Except those caused by the onions.
Sometimes I clear my head by filling pots and pans,
By slicing, dicing, mixing, mashing.
Sometimes baking is more than baking
And cooking more than cooking.
Sometimes it is my path to peace.
Bless me reader, for I have sinned.
Let me whisper all my secrets.
Listen as I tell you of
Trespasses bold and frequent.
I invite you into everything–
My fears, my flaws, my woe.
Freely admitting that I’m no saint
Means I need not put on a show.
I choose to put myself on display
In the hope my readers will see
The imperfections of which they’re ashamed
Are also present in me.
There’s no need to hide if we all live the truth
That worthy does not mean unbroken,
And there is connection to be found
In the secrets we hold unspoken.
I try to practice what I preach
So in confessing I’ll go first,
And pour out my defects and demons
So you know you’re not the worst.
If I’m Honest
Sometimes when I suffer from the grumpies
the sight of birds at my front porch feeders
is enough to set me right.
The scarlet cardinal set against white blossoms
the chubby mourning dove lumbering along the porch
before awkwardly lifting off and landing right in the feeder
the lithe finches chittering their claim on the prime places
ease my cantankerous spirit and tease a smile from my face.
But sometimes when I suffer from the grumpies
I imagine making those flying freeloaders disappear
with a pop
in a puff of feathers
using only the power of my ill-tempered thoughts.
Without a doubt,
the safest place
for a chicken at night
is in the coop.
But my sweet Bibi,
bless her heart,
would rather sleep
under the stars.
Although there are times
when we scoop her up
and place her inside to roost,
most nights I just let her be.
Turning to go back inside,
I whisper a wish of protection,
briefly envying this small creature
and her devil-may-care spirit.