Reservoirs

In the pen,

reservoirs of blood and reason,

sheathed the sword,

woven, covert shroud and hate-paled mask,

Fight the fight

with the ink that flows, risks treason,

drips and drops of love

from reservoirs to task.

Turn the tides

as moonbeams in the ether

on golden pond a liquid glow

from crimson ink,

Reverse the falls,

fill channels, churn the waters,

from reservoirs of pens 

filled to the brink.

New Year, New Hope, All Hail

All hail the revolution that may flourish

When actions, thought, intentions coincide,

A passion plea for peace to nurture, nourish,

Revolution of the minds burst open wide.

A global epidemic of proportions,

Pandemic thus, reliant on the means,

Communicable by communication,

Reticulated, networking at the seams.

Where once upon a dreamscape we envisaged

Peace alignment, massive in its scale,

Let words and actions make the global village,

We can do this, yes, believe, we can prevail.

Wishing you all a peaceful and hope-filled New Year.

May we flourish as one humanity.

Anne-Marie x

Words in Waiting

All the words are there

Sitting alphabetically, waiting.

Still waiting.

Idle.

Ho hum, ho hum, ho hum.

Bored,

Feeling Useless,

Neglected,

Knowing their Importance in the Big Book

And Scheme of Things.

Wisdom Nods to Sense,

Kindness to Reason,

Compassion Shakes its Head at Heart,

Respect Sits Patiently,

Too Patiently,

While Nonsense, Fear and Spin

Twist and Turn,

Overused,

Abandoning Courtesy,

Justice and Fairness.

Dictionary Lost, Ripped up,

Sold to the Highest Bidder.

Redraft,

Reprint.

Publish or Be Damned.

 

Born of a conversation in comments this morning with Richard.

Com/pl/ex/it/y

c/a/t

chop, chop, chop, chop it into pieces,

put it back together like a jigsaw.

cl/a/p

chop, chop, chop, chop it into pieces,

put it back together like a jigsaw.

m/ea/n/ing/s

chop, chop, chop, chop it into pieces,

put it back together like a jigsaw.

poetry

chop, chop, chop, chop it into pieces,

put it back together like a jigsaw.

Life.

 

Search For Key

I know you struggle with communication,

You search for words and actions to convey

All you feel and think, all that is within you,

Everything you find no way to say.

I know I struggle too with this same problem

Despite the fact that words come all too easily,

Sometimes it’s not the words that are the problem

But knowing which ones tell the truths for me.

I know we cannot always speak or reach out,

Locked inside ourselves as we all are,

Begging for a greater wordsmith’s charter

To reveal the core that reunites the stars.

I know affliction of this kind is legend,

Tracks volumes written of all history,

Permeates the core of all our suffering,

Lack of understanding, search for key.

Flight Lessons

I soared there

for a second

in time,

hovered briefly

in the millenia

of consciousness,

eagle-eye internal

to the words

found wanting,

glided on an updraft,

invisible to view,

felt in the breeze,

spiralled to gravity’s

reckless abandonment,

pulled up

short

before the crash

obliterating

reality’s

nonsense.

I  flew then

for a while,

lost to reason’s

purpose,

bathed in light

sharp against

my retina,

colours faded

to acute contrast,

rods only,

no cones.

A blink in time,

a truth eternal,

flight lessons

remembered,

regeneration of

cause.

First Meal of the Day

Up since five a.m. today exploring

others’ words.

Your dreams and hopes, fears and tears,

stirred into my coffee.

I take it black,

unsweetened,

not bitter.

I drink it down in earnest

appreciation of the full flavour,

picked and gathered

from plants

nurtured

around the globe.

Each bean picked

to give a mix

flavoursome

to my palate.

I inhale from leaves too.

First meal of the day.

Two drugs

with the words

makes three.

Nicotine and caffeine

coursing through

bloodstream

with words fed onto pages.

Sad words,

hopeful words,

words that speak of deepest feelings and thoughts.

They touch me.

Nourishment

swallowed and inhaled

with coffee

and cigarettes.

And appreciated.

Addictive manna,

nectar to my needs.

Nicotine,

coffee

and soul connections.

I rinse my mug, stub out my cigarette, close my kindle and begin my day.

It’s almost seven now.

Two hours of addiction satisfied.

But they will invite me back

for lunch.

We Write…

We write of summer meadows and of dewdrops,

Of circles caught in circles in our mind,

Of senses’ fantasies that beg releasing, in

Images that seep on page to find

Recognition in the land of journey

Of imagination played before our fluttered eyes,

Of colours bright or muted, freed from prism,

Of right or wrong, of truth, of evil lies.

 

We write of winter howling in bare treetops,

Of geometric tangents linked with space,

Of god and gifts and sad laments of knowing

Revealed inside the gifs behind our face,

Of politics and grace and favour owing,

Of how, by nature, owls seek out and track their prey

While, through the night, their silent wings stir currents,

Nocturnal voice, soft breathing held at bay.

 

We write at dawn and in night’s tiptoed torment

Of tales and thoughts, common to us all,

Of worlds within the world we all are sharing,

We write, in honesty, must be the greatest call

Of those drawn to the world of language,

In letter’d form, placed hesitantly, upon page,

Hit ‘publish’ while our hearts on white are crafted,

Daring reciprocity or rage.

 

Of ballerinas twirling in their jewel box,

When opened to reveal our trinkets there,

We write and dare our eyes to endless wonder,

We write, we risk our souls to honest bare.

We write because not doing is no option,

Words bedevil, haunt with no regret,

Spectral forms hover oe’r us, in cloud lexicon,

Begging exorcism on the net.

 

We write in music, pictures and prose poetry,

In art, in forms all risen from the pyre

Of ashen phoenix, from a long tradition

Of pigments mixed in charcoal from the fire.

In black and white, in colours that suffuse us,

Permeate the gases of our form,

Our nebula of knowing that what moves us,

Communication, as the human norm.

 

We write when tears are forming on our eyelids,

Smudging ink that proves our hearts still feel,

In anger, too, spilled blood from ancient consciousness,

We write to justify our thoughts are real.

We write because we see all souls are hurting,

As mine does too, from time to time, no less,

We write as union with the great unknowing,

One cell from shared communion that we bless

 

In knowing that no trouble that we carry

Need be borne alone no matter where we are,

Our words are missiles, more powerful than nuclear,

They are the love that nurtures near or far.

The word is flesh, the word is souls abiding

In light, its form, its earthless, weightless mass,

In silence and in photonic dark room,

One word may mean more than all the rest.

 

We write of dreams succumbed to when we’re sleeping,

Of daydreams caught in shower’s gentle sting,

Of justice, truth, of pain, of deep depression,

Of cloud release ascended on the wing.

Of tender-hearted moments that we’ve nourished,

Of visions seen in skies, on mountain peaks,

We write of all that’s conjured in our musings,

We write because some words are hard to speak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog Tour

A very fine poet, Paul, a master with words and imagery, invited me along on a blog tour. I’m chuffed to bits that he reads my blog and makes lovely comments.

Now, I also feel a bit guilty because Ali invited me on a blog tour a wee while back and I agreed and then didn’t follow through on my side of the tour. My bad. But, here I make it up to her and, hopefully, send lots of new readers to these two wonderful bloggers. Both write fabulously well, leave me standing at the starting gate, so to speak. So I’m delighted that they each extended the invite and urge you to check them out.

This is my absolute favourite of Paul’s. I had to read it over and over again and eventually made a reading of it for my own pleasure. It’s a wonderful piece of work.

Ali’s writing is so often full of humour and this one appeals to the teacher in me and the love of a fine anecdote expressed just so.

 

The three questions I am to consider are these.

Why do I write what I do?

How does my writing process work?

How does my work differ from other genres?

 These questions  certainly got me thinking about how and why I write and when it all began. So I penned this. With a pen!

 

Poetic infancy, I guess,

began with a doodle,

a scribble on page,

just a mark

till letters’ formations

revealed their delight,

their sensory quality,

their spark.

 

Like moth to the flame

of the pencil and pad,

to the ink draining

out from the pen,

I scribbled and drew,

no clue what to do

but still the flow

raptured and then

 

I found out in books,

those worlds in the pages,

what magic

an author creates,

I gloried in them,

hid out in my den

while kids danced and larked.

My fate

 

was to wonder at words,

their meanings, their source,

to be spellbound

by even their spelling,

to capture each one

how they’d become,

connotations,

their secrets concealing

 

in Latin, in Greek, all the words that we speak,

in the French, in my own mother tongue,

I found that one word

may erupt as I think,

while feelings

course from

my lifeblood

to ink.

 

In angst of my teens,

I defined all my dreams

in writing,

who I was, the why of existence.

Years charted of life,

senses refined,

thoughts penned, but

only for my own subsistence,

 

to reveal who I am,

what I feel, what I think

how my mind

plays tricks in the light,

I wrote for myself,

filed the pads on the shelves,

opened new,

wrote into the night.

 

Till one day in June,

of two thousand thirteen,

at behest of my brother,

I clicked

on WP’s pages,

typed up some old stuff,

and haven’t looked back.

What a dick!

 

I now feel to have been

so shy to reveal

with the family of all

who love words

my offerings today,

as I make my own way,

not in forms recognised

but in floods

 

of joy that I’ve found

in expressing myself,

in floating, eyes gazed

to the sky,

that nothing is worse

than a tongue if it’s cursed

to a silence

that tells its own lie.

 

Now you’ll be sorry you asked

for a blog tour from me

‘cos bugger!

I just don’t do brief

but that’s just my style,

I’ve tried haiku and twitter

but syllable/character counts

feel like thieves,

 

reducing outpourings,

that I have to confess,

just splurge like

waterfall’d blurbs,

all the A’s and the B’s

right through to the Z’s –

no process –

just a huge love of words.

 

And pens and paper.

A bit of a fetish actually!

 

 

Why do I write what I do? Because I have to, always have.

How does my writing process work? Like a waterfall.

How does my work differ from other genres? Not a bloody clue! And don’t, frankly, care. They’re all words.

 

I’d like to invite a few others to this blog tour whose work I admire.

Cole, whose eloquence in words and thoughts on life and meaning entrance me.

http://colemining.wordpress.com/2014/06/03/poets-priests-and-politicians/#comments

She’s coming to Glasgow in September so we’re going to have a good old natter about politics and music and life. Over a couple of glasses of vino, of course. Looking forward to it, Cole!

I only came across this blogger recently and he has quite a distinct style that I really must try in that his poetry is prose is poetry.

Daniel at

http://danielswearingen.wordpress.com/2014/06/27/merle/

Now there are so many more I could mention whose blogs and words I love. But I figure you’ll have more than enough marvellous reading material when you visit Paul, Ali, Cole and Daniel.