Sailing and Searching

This poem is for FOWC: Search and was partially inspired by this prompt about what provides comfort. It is written in a form that I learned from Abigail Gronway at  “Dark Side of the Moon” a long time ago. Go check out her blog; she writes fantastic poetry! I am also linking with DVerse OLN.

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To Exist Safely

Today at DVerse, we have prosery again. This is usually very difficult for me, so I rarely try it, but this week I want to try. 🙂 However, the given line, from Rilke, is challenging: “Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things?” – from Rainer Maria Rilke, “Heartbeat.” I am also sharing this with yesterday’s Writers’ Pantry at PSU. I usually don’t share anything other than poems, so this should be fun.


There is something inside that must be spoken, before it eats its way out of its cage inside of her mind. She tries to find the words to express her secret, but with difficulty, for she can barely get any words out without shaking. She trips over those words, like stones in her path to freedom. Even the words that escape the prison of her lips do not seem to express fully what she means to say. Sadly she realizes, “Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things?”

Continuing to tremble, as if trying to shake off the chains of the past, she hugs herself and feels the beat of her own heart in the center of her chest. It is the life inside of her, which is close and which has its own, wordless song. She takes a deep breath in and begins to speak again.

 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Beloved

For the current Weekly Scribblings at PSU, Rosemary invites us to write about non-human beloved companions, whether they be pets or animals or even inanimate objects. I decided to write about my rosary. I carry one just about everywhere I go. It is more than an object because, through the prayers, it connects me to heaven. 🙂 Below is a picture of my favorite rosary.

My current favorite rosary

hear my prayer:
heart freely chooses
to stay close
to the source
of every loveliness,
the pearl of great price

Ribs

When your dinner inspires a poem, you might have a problem. 🙂 However, it’s the kind of problem that I love to have. In April I have set the goal to post a poem every day, so this is the one I’ve chosen to share today.


Very messy,
Like the ribs that I’ve been eating —
Very messy
Side of life that others don’t see,
Façade behind which heart’s beating —
Recall, my dear, all hide something
Very messy.

Sustaining the Weary

For FOWC: Note. The first line was inspired by the beginning of a reading from Mass today. Isaiah 50:4


Sustain the weary with a word:
Allow their pain to now be heard,
To usher in a note of peace,
Like the song of a little bird.

Sustain the sad with present care:
Fear not a silent space to share.
For in the quiet, hearts can fill
With depth of friendship that is rare.

A Slow Start

At last, a décima for Ronovan’s décima challenge this week and for FOWC: Contain! This took a while, since I tried since Wednesday to even come up with one line.


This verse is difficult to start:
What themes and words should it contain?
May inspiration soon regain
Its strength, as it speaks to my heart.

A poem is building, part by part.
It seems as naught in readers’ eyes,
Yet words encourage; my pen tries.
Let patience have its perfect work:
Show up, and be sure not to shirk
Daily attempts — to win the prize!Ronovan Writes Decima Challenge Image

Ghazal: Folly

After posting the paint-chip ghazal earlier today, I remembered this one, written about a month ago, on January 16, 2021.

clear wine glass on black table
Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

Forgive my folly, veritable wells of it!
Let it be written down, say not farewell to it!

Before its end, all pens would use their ink;
Were I given all time, I could not tell of it.

See how the heart makes passion come in waves —
Behold the ocean deep, the ebb and swell of it!

Even if you are not my Beatrice,
Could you not be my Virgil for the hell of it?

Now all that’s left are roses pressed in books:
One such sweet scent — this writer brings to life the smell of it.