Notes on reading

I am a note taker
note maker
scrawled into the margins
of a book
no longer virgin as my heart
and mind
reach out, reply
to ink written words
telepathy taking my
underlines,
responses, exclamations
all the feelings that I feel
back to the centre
of the soul who spoke to me.

I cannot keep my
emotive
skin-raw answers
to myself, too loud
the craving to be heard
by moments on a page
I hear so loud.

A baby – a baby!

The photo, alive in my purse, is grainy
poor quality
but Madonna bliss
glows clearly there
from deep within, where you
moon round
constricted
clench the very centre
of my body, tight
around the everything of yours.

And I am smiling, hands
caressing you-in-me
and keeping all the times you move
a secret
just between the two of us
because you’re mine this way, and soon
I’ll have to share
you
with a world not good enough
for all you are
and all you’ll be.

But not yet.
Not today.
Beneath the comedic swell
of body housing my whole world
you stretched
reminding of the deadline
fast approaching.

And I pushed back
smoothing, soothing
irritated flexes of an elbow
where an elbow surely could not be
had never been before.

You grew within a barren place
created landscapes
never dreamed
but all at once familiar,
like we’d lived this tale before
and all again you taught me
how
and who
to be.

But not quite yet
the sharing part
one more day
my smile says
and for that day
just one more day
I had my way
then showed you yours.

I made a life

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This poetry writing thing has taken me quite by surprise – I appear to be writing a few a day, at a rate I haven’t since I was an angsty, angry teenager. (The type to write about feeling forlorn, perhaps?)

Some of them I’ve decided not to publish, hence not sharing one yesterday, but I’m aware that this is my own little tiny piece of the internet, and there aren’t many of you waiting on the edge of your seats to see more posts from me!

As I mentioned previously, I’ve got myself a subscription to Writers’ Forum magazine, and I’m still coming back to the prompts I saw in there earlier this week; the next prompt I’m sharing was ‘a first or last breath’.

I made a life.

I discovered another person, inside me
hearts in time and a tiny dance
that swam like our magic, secret world, I held this knowledge tight
until the day my body reached a limit
and an instinct to tear our one to two
that, spoken by the universe, we could not halt
took over
and the world that he inhabited
suddenly
and glacier slow
became a whole new world
apart
from me.

A push, a pull, and life was there
atop of me where once within
and fury filled a face unhappy with this change
of situation
life, but not yet living,
yet
until
a heave of bird like, butterfly chest
breath
creating life so true.

My heart broke
rebuilt
soared
all
in one moment
made anew.

A silver line that binds
my soul to his
stretched ever thinner as he learns to fly
from my soft, love feathered nest
my pride outshining sorrow
as he climbs towards a full grown self
no longer part of me
this journey we’re both on
takes separate paths
as it should be.

 

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Forlorn

As part of my mission to write more, write better, and write things people see so I can get used to people seeing my writing (which is akin to peeling off my skin and asking you all whether you like the way my dermis displays my nerve endings) I have sought out a number of prompts and exercises, some from the Writers’ Forum magazine, as demonstrated in yesterday’s post, and others from elsewhere.

Today’s is from daily post and the prompt is a single word, with  which I can do anything. So I’ve done this;

Forlorn

A word is a place we can occupy
when we speak from a secret deep inside
a world in a word we can make our own
and a universe we can call a home

a word is a secret, whispered close
to the ears of a loved one trusted most
a whisper is a promise and a piece of self
a betrayal to the sanctity of mental health

A word can be everything, out on its own
in a universe tailored for pairing alone
souls to bolt two whole beings together
to make anew something that can’t last forever

Eternity cycles from every decision
all of our choices become our prison
as free as we try to believe we can be
the older we get, the more we can see

We are trapped in this pattern, this endless recycle
of living and breathing and dying, desciples
of promises made to a world we just visit
and we question, each moment, if this really is it

A word, whispered tenderly, sharing a moment
gives a piece of ourselves until we’re just the remnant
of a soul, given piecemeal to those we would warn
and our love, given freely, leaves those remnants forlorn.

Image shared from http://www.azquotes.com/quotes/topics/forlorn.html