Steps In Between

My journey as a writer.

Poetry

candle light

Spark of Hope

Leaning back,

sideways,

forward onto my knees—

Every which way,

I seek a flame,

a spark of hope.

 

The chance to step aside

from this moment,

this season,

this time of typical,

routine

dare I say—

Normal?

 

Head shaking, locks

dance about,

in slow motion.

Blindingly dizzy,

I seek flame after flame,

some spark of hope.

 

The chance to step outside,

breath caught

trapped inside,

choked through, because

sometimes you must

trample,

tear,

take off the outer layer

of yourself,

 

to seek the flame,

the spark of hope—

 

For something new.

 

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Pull

Chest rises

Like a breath

Inside my lungs

Forced

From outside my body

 

Explosive

Senses gladdened

Ripple out

Through purple veins

Freedom gifted

 

On this morning

Seated in the sand

Ocean’s blanket

Soothing

Tide’s pull

 

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If I Were A Book

(Written from a prompt on SpiritRadio.com, Where the Light Most Falls, with DJ Tamara)

If I were a book, I would be shelved in Poetry, wearing words on my fingers and tales on my toes.

Though at night, I would sneak over to Fiction. Not for the horrors and murders of Mystery, or the sad truths and burdens of Reality, but for the enchanted realms of Fantasy.

You see by day, my feet, they move through verse like notes in a song. My toes, never still, weave together words that clothe my body, protect my thumping heart in perfect beats, iambic.

But at night, my feet, they do not rest. For there is no need in the life of books, forever alive in the author’s mind.

My feet plant themselves on the moon, and I fall upside down, little girl on a swing, with popcorn stars in brilliant darkness. My front row seat to stories, teased out of freedom air. No confinements. No rules of spirit.

The place my imagination soars higher than swinging bent knees, until morning comes, and my satisfied soul finds the melody of rising sun heating the day.

And once again, my feet, they find a rhyme to stand on, barefoot, and happy to be… Home.

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Light

The dictionary says it is something that makes things visible or affords illumination.

It is also electromagnetic radiation to which the organs of sight react.

Standing as a beacon, it can guide ships in from treacherous angry waters, or at least mark the spot not to go, but regardless it illuminates the way.

That is more than the murky lightbulb in the plastic lantern lighting my driveway.

Of course, there is no unknown destiny in a driveway. Or is there?

Maybe those moments in the early dark of morning, awaiting the stubborn engine to kick in, to wake up, to rumble the dead to work, maybe that soft glow conducts something internal, something in the deepest corner of your heart, and guides you on a journey.

A calling you could miss, if it wasn’t for the light.

But you miss it, because the light is blinding, as dimming as it appears in the wee hours of the night. It radiates in the morning, as tired eyes, the organs which react to the electromagnetic radiation, want to close.

As they do at night, after a long day.

And so the light, the beacon, the guide away from the wrong spot… keeps you in the spot

with little light to illuminate the way.

friendship golden Glassybaby

Moving

Amber light creeps

sunrise warm,

chilly room,

empty walls, wait

to be called home.

 

Anticipation flounders,

cold space, exposed.

Unfixable flaws, long

for attention, hopefulness.

 

Cutting blade sinks

through cardboard, thick,

tape bound wounds

left behind, still healing.

 

The honey hue, sticky

with reminders, lifts

the mood. Its message,

clarity in a dark room.

 

Through tinted glass,

candle holder pleads,

tea light gleams, expectant

beacon ablaze…

 

Home is not a place.

leaf in rain

Fall Creeps In

Fall creeps in

sneakily, in colors of sunset.

Amber eyes watching,

waiting,

tucked in

between bouquets of green,

taunting

summer’s peace…

Unknowingly vulnerable.

 

And like winding floral ivy

twists in final turn,

like rolling ocean breeze

blankets an end to starry nights,

like a snake hunting

seasons

as its prey…

Summer slithers softly

away.

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