Category Archives: Poetry

There are times when writing feels more like art and poetry is a song for the soul.

The Standard of Life Well Lived

The following is my submission for the How Well: Creative Challenge.
*Medium Members can view it here.

In youth we learn success means more,
judged by the collections we amass.
Always searching for the open door,
never seeing the half-full glass.

What matters most is time well spent
in the warm embrace of those we love.
Compassion given without intent.
Lessons learned but not spoken of.

The shackles of greed may yet restrain.
It takes wisdom for one to know
the indifference of wealth and material gain,
and that we cannot take it when we go.

Advertisements

Glory Days

Hello stairs, my nemesis.
I recognize that the creaking and popping I hear
is not the protestation of your weathered planks,
but of my own ageing bones.

I lumber to the top,
leading all the way with my stronger leg.
Slow and steady wins the race.

Yesterday I bent to put on a sock and threw out my back,
then laughed for several minutes at the absurdity.

I’m the youngest today that I’m ever going to be,
so I ruby my lips and slip on the sequined dress that is hated by everyone but me,
because I’m still young enough to enjoy things in life
and old enough not to care what people think.

Many look back on their youth and lose themselves in the past,
but it’s not for me.
Though mornings start to feel colder and bedtime comes earlier,
these are my glory days, and I’m going to savour them.

Eagle

“Fly above the storm”,
Eagle whispered in my ear.
“Soar above the anger,
rise against the fear”.

He tucked me in the safety
of a great, extended wing,
He sheltered me from sorrow;
he taught me how to sing.

He settled me to rest
atop a mountain high,
and told me wondrous stories
of the land beyond the sky.

When I woke, I found him gone,
but we were not apart;
hardship can not shadow
the eagle in my heart.

Little Soup Pot

Little soup pot, short and wide,

What memories are found inside.

A recipe from grandma’s book,

When, as a child, I learned to cook.

 

Little Soup pot, chipped and worn,

When family merged and love was born.

Happiness was just the start,

And in that pot I found my heart.

 

Little soup pot, years have passed,

As I wipe the dust from you, at last.

Grandma’s gone and I’m alone,

My heart is longing to be home.

 

Little soup pot, live again,

Grandma’s soup – a perfect blend.

An eagerness I cannot hide,

For a taste of home dwells deep inside.

Little Child

Little child, so far from home
What do you seek out there while you roam?
Your heart has been broken, your dreams have all died
The ache in your soul you try so hard to hide

Listen child, for I’ve felt your pain
I know of the anger you fight to restrain
Despair is a dagger that cuts to the bone
But running away makes you feel more alone

Dear child, the horizon can never be yours
Return to your life, open your doors
The past is forgotten, the future unclear
So focus your strength on today, while you’re here

My child, your colours are beginning to show
Your purpose in life permitted to flow
You may be one person, but shadow your fear
Your conviction speaks loudly to those who are near

Brave child, the world needs your strong embraces
People look to you with hope on their faces
The battles you win will make your hands steady
The universe waits upon you to be ready

Go child, the time has come to be strong
This has been your path all along
You’ll change the world and cast off the night
You’ll be a hero, but you must stand and fight

The Awakening

My weary mind passed through into another world, another time.
The visions that enchanted me were morose, but yet sublime.
Through forests deep and intricate my aching heart could roam,
and silent whispers called to me and told me I was home

It seems I walked for ages, when I saw a wondrous sight,
and thought my eyes deceived me in the failing of the light;
but there he stood, great and stark, protector of the wood.
I had no need to speak a word, the shepherd understood.

He led me to an unusual place, where the Calendula grew,
and showed to me the abandoned tomb of someone I once knew.
My tears flowed down like a river stream, and drowned me in regret;
it pained me to remember, so I had let myself forget.

My fingers softly brushed across my lordship’s name in stone,
and for the moment I suffered like I was once more left alone,
but something summoned my attention, a solitary plea;
my king begged me not to despair, for he was still with me.

Concord

A fate of a twisted moon beyond
becomes a love’s dedication song
to weld the soul’s brittle bond.

To see how harsh winter’s wind still blows
a distance traveled desert rose
come to cease my adverse prose.

Row upon row of anguished hearts
a battle to find true love imparts
to vanquish pain’s dramatic arts.

Look no more upon my tears
but heal the wounds bane of spears
and facilitate my mind of fears.

My weary anger no more resists
your lips upon my unclenched fists
as we steal away into the mist.

No more, no more, malevolence exists…