i almost...

Carolee is hosting "The Traveling Poetry Show" today, so please visit her blog to read her post, find out next week's prompt, and visit her comments to link to some posts about poetry.

*****

Yesterday, thinking about the idea of fear that Delia posted as the prompt last week, the writing prompt "I almost" sprung to my mind. I wanted to just write and write all that came from thinking about that phrase. Fears can spring from that word almost. The following phrases aren't current feelings necessarily, just thoughts that came to me as I wrote for several minutes without stopping or editing (much):

I almost

Sat until I couldn't feel
Closed my eyes to truth
Got in the car and never looked back
Quietly allowed the world to happen around me
Believed that things just seemed to happen to me
Stayed in a belittling, suckerpunch-filled relationship
Wished it all away
Felt so much envy I forgot me
Stuffed anger in until my belly bloated
Forgot to remember myself
Slept my way to stagnation
Thought I didn't have a tribe
Didn't believe someone could change
Didn't own all of it
Didn't allow for possibility
Didn't dream of something breath taking
Lost my footing

And from this free writing came the following little poem of sorts:

I almost slept
my way to stagnation
but instead
I swim inside
possibility
balance
and breath

i took {poetry thursday}

Tonight, as my "to do" list fights with my "people I seem to be letting down lately" list for the top spot on my inbox and the television speaks only sadness, I took a break. From all of it. I took a break holding a Spire cider in one hand and Billy Collins or rather the poetry of Billy Collins in the other. I took a break sitting on my front step as day turned into dusk pulling on the hem of evening's skirt. I took a break from all of it. I took a break with a cider and Billy Collins. I took a break from grief as I skipped over poems that called to me with titles like "The Dead" and "The Afterlife."

I allowed laughter in.

I took a break from it all and spent time with laughter as I read "The Hunt" four times to paint the described landscape in my mind. I let this landscape where Noah Webster and his assistants hunt a new word become, for a moment, my landscape. I took a break with laughter. I took a break. From all of it. I took a break from fixing when I turned to "Going Out for Cigarettes" and nestled inside these words:

Let us say this is the place where the man who goes out
for cigarettes finally comes to rest: on a riverbank
above the long, inquisitive wriggling of that line,

sitting content in the quiet picnic of consciousness

I took a break and let Billy Collins remind me.

I took a break sitting on the front step as dusk settled over the stretching northwest skyline. I took a break. From all of it. I took a break to breathe in nature and words. I began to breathe in every word and then found myself suddenly chewing. As I reread "Metamorphosis" I was suddenly chewing as though if eating "If Kafka could turn a man into an insect in one sentence perhaps he could turn me into something new" and "Not that I am miserable, but I could use a change" would cause the page to turn and I would find myself away. From all of it. From the fighting, stretching lists. I even contemplated consuming the ant that crawled across the words as though his ability to walk on the actual letters would make the words grow inside me and root.

I took a break. From all of it. I took a break and watched the ant crawl across page 70 then 71 and toward the back cover. I took a drink then gave the ant freedom with the understanding of safety from me and Kafka and Collins.

I took a break. From all of it. I took a break with cider and Collins and dusk turning into a warm breezy August nightfall. I took a break to remind myself. I took a break to let poetry remind me of myself.

I took a break. From all of it. I took a break until I could no longer read the words in the dimming light.

I took a break to remember.
I took a break to remember me.

*****

Poems mentioned are from Questions About Angels by Billy Collins. To read "Metamorphosis" in its entirety, click over to this Washington Post article. Note that the poem ends right before the last paragraph (the last word of the poem is face); this isn't clear in the online layout.

Go on over and visit Poetry Thursday to link to more participant posts...

my heart carries {poetry thursday}

sunset at cannon beach, taken by jonny

my heart carries:

the sound of the birds chirping me awake
the first time i held my baby brother in my arms
the time my baby brother held me in his arms after our grandmother's funeral
the smell of hot apple cider with cinnamon
my mother's voice saying, "i am on my way"
the way our dog millie snores asleep next to me on the couch
the first time my husband said, "can i hold your hand?"
the feel of my childhood pink blanket against my face before i would fall asleep
the way a friend laughs until tears stream down her face
a moment witnessing my father's vulnerability
the smells of game day
the crocus as it peeks into spring
the first time eating corn on the cob after my braces were removed
the rhythm of my grandmother's voice saying "hello" when she knew it was me
moments spent watching the sky become a watercolor streaked sunset

***

letting go of the need for a genre (and thanking dana for that invitation), i am going to just keep writing poem notes. little pieces that appear in my mind that i want to grab before they slip away. i will keep them here so that i can turn to them as needed.

i come from {poetry thursday}

i want to share another poem i wrote at artfest in susan wooldridge's poemcrazy class...when i read this poem tonight, i was reminded of possibility once again.

*****

I come from
a land where Cinderella eats a
black apple and dances in
both her shoes.

I come from
a tree house city where I watch
forest elephants search for their souls
inside a purple sky.

I come from
a field of gold and pink dotted petals
nestled in the breast of the milky way.

I come from
a heron’s wing, a wooly fleshed
warbler, a chickadees spell.

I come from
a tiptoeing, still, winter home
where I wrap myself in
a blanket of stories.

a poem {poetry thursday}

today i am sharing a poem i wrote in susan wooldridge's poemcrazy workshop i took at artfest. we were given several prompts, one being to give voice to something. we had also spent time sharing words from different books we each had; susan wrote the words up on the board. they were so good! that we were all furiously writing them down. she also wrote several words she had written in her journal from a dictionary page that all began with s. i grabbed onto the word seed and this was the result.

*****

The seed says

I used to believe I was
a practitioner of balance
perched inside a canopy
but here i am,
pirouetted to the ground
my eyes see nothing in
this cocoon of windswept dirt

i am scattered

come back to me
home
come back to me
quiet mind

*****