how does poetry work ?
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Category Archives: writing
poems about writing poems
The Darker
the moon through pine trees
In the sun you do not see me,
standing where your shadow falls
In the night you cannot hear me
although in silence blackness calls.
In the darkness, see the starlight
not visible in day
and in the realm of opal moonlight
rest you – by the window stay.
A fool is what people would call me
a master of deceit and lie
as real as your blackest nightmares
only gentler come whistling by.
In the breeze my weak flame sputters
casting dark, on dark, the night:
but in the gloom can stand – aphotic
so that you can see the light.
Nine Lives
oh how I now must face my fears
drying my eyes away where cold-shed tears
evaporate away to powder – salt
the only trace that’s left of fault
yet it is not true that I don’t regret
but quite what I should do – I forget
and my tears do not belie I’m sad
instead that once my heart was glad
I lived a life that was full of vigour
why I should be sad I just don’t figure
but now comes the part in this fine race
where my heart must live without its trace
nine-lives the cat but perhaps its true
that I had more, but more ran through
perhaps my last one ends just here
perhaps already by my fear
without regret could I live instead
in a world of poetry going round my head
perhaps I could return again
one more time to lift the rhyming pen
Pupation
.
re-entering the world anew
pupated after three months
of quiet contemplation
today shall I exit my cave
leave my hermit-hood behind
.
will the world be different –
one where the wind blows afresh
or one that has not changed:
even as the sun still shines
which way will the shadows fall?
.
(untitled)#35
In response to Judith Westerfield's The Heart Of The Battle:
.
do you notice not
the wind that blows against us
it is but the same?
.
(untitled)#34
In response to Judith Westerfield's Invisible Illness And The White Flag Of Surrender:
.
no resignation!
but accepting of what is
at peace with the world
.
whistling ninja 