When I feel sad I might curl up in a ball and sob
Or apply mascara and go out for lunch
I might dance around the room with abandon
Or sit by myself in a corner, when I feel sad.
There’s no telling what I’ll do when the self pity lands
And my thoughts go to dark places. But I won’t do that.
Don’t worry. I’m not sad.
Peace, people.
My blog has a new follower:
Me.
I “like” my own posts,
But I haven’t gone overboard
With praise for my writing.
That would be pure vanity.
Neither have I critiqued it
Negatively, though.
I’m fairly certain the writer is daft
And I’d hate to hurt her
Feelings.
If it’s always darkest before the dawn, then is the opposite true?
Before the dark sets in, is that when the light shines brightest?
Maybe we’d notice then, and make ready.
But then we’d always be wondering, is this it? Is this the brightest light? How could anything be brighter? We must be doomed.
Or maybe we’d just celebrate the light.
Peace, people.
Discover Prompts: Light
Door knobs and counter tops,
Paper money and coins,
Credit card scanners and screens,
Gas pump handles, a lover’s face,
Our phones, our eyes, our hair,
Children’s little noses, dogs’ ears,
Cats, when they’ll let us,
Faucets and tables,
Light switches and silverware,
Steering wheels and guitar strings,
The panic button, if we aren’t careful.
Peace, people.
When I march, it’s to a different beat, three quarter time, more a waltz than a Sousa piece
Oompah pah, oompah pah, the carousel goes ‘round and ‘round. One, two, three, again and again
White horses on poles, the occasional sleigh, me, trying to catch the brass ring on the downbeat
Hanging on for dear life, even though I’ll go ‘round more than once. It’s not at all like real life.
If I were a writer
I’d dredge up the dirt
The stuff that stifles dreams
And makes everyone cringe,
The grit that scours my heart.
I’d lay my soul bare
Grieve publicly
Take the blame.
Instead, I’m just a wannabe
Writing about nothing that matters
Where no one gets hurt.
Especially not me.
Statue of Sorrow by T.J. Fowler
I know a thing or two about dust
A Texas panhandle childhood taught me its sting on the playground
Grit-filled eyes and sandblasted legs
Days of dust
And tumbling weeds
When gray choked skies obscured and
Scouring winds grew teeth
I thought that was how the whole world worked
Nature’s castigation
For our sins.
(I do not miss those days.)
I wonder
Is there a better word than dappled
For the way the sunlight plays through the trees, speckling the road?
Variegated is all wrong; unless one is speaking of yarn,
And motley only makes me think of clowns or crews.
Discolored doesn’t work, suggesting there’s been a mistake, and make no mistake–
Dappling is perfection; poetry in shadowy motion.
Flecked? Checkered? Parti-colored? No!
Stippled? Perhaps. I could work with stippled.
Still, dappled comes to mind first, when I crest a hill and see the canopy of trees
Filtering the light on a sun-kissed day, painting abstract patterns on the pavement
And peace in my soul.
Peace, people.
Yesterday I posted a link to my friend, Julie’s blog post that featured her photo (below). Just in case my readers didn’t click on the link, here’s the poem I wrote to accompany the photo.
“Hung Out to Dry”
Passion had its way with her
Swept her up
Cast her about
Until she was
Strung out,
Wrung out,
Hung out to dry,
Swinging from tenterhooks
For all the world to see.
A lesser woman might’ve
Given up,
Shriveled up,
Dried on the vine,
Not she, no for
She claimed her place,
Staked her bets and
Stood on her own two feet.
Unbound.
The work of my photographer friend, Julie Powell, whose blog can be found at juliepowell2014@wordpress.com, inspires me. Her work is often playful, sometimes edgy, and always beautiful.
Occasionally my mind runs along similar paths as Julie’s, and I’m moved to write a piece in response to her art.
I hope you’ll click on the link to Julie’s post and my poem.
https://juliepowell2014.wordpress.com/2020/01/05/hung-out-to-dry-by-leslie-noyes/
Praying for Eyebrowz 