Rhymed and unrhymed, form or free, this is where the poetry lives.
I wrote this poem in ‘concrete’ form and, of course, the blog won’t let me use my formatting. So I’ve saved it as a picture and posted it below.
I’ll try to save it to a higher resolution on my other computer but wanted to get it onto the blog – after all – it is ‘poem a day’ !
#33
Extra words in poems are like the scaffolding
surrounding a building. They support the workers as they go,
helping them rise from one level to the next,
allowing them to bring along their tools and extra materials.
But scaffolding is about the worker
not about the work. It is a buffer
and a barrier, obscuring the work from the world.
It can be a fearful endeavour, this baring one’s soul,
putting it on display for prying eyes to interpret.
It’s hard to be brave when you fear to fall,
it’s hard to be honest when no one has to be honest back, but
never hesitate to tear down the scaffolding that
hides your heart.
Let go of the words the way you’d tear down scaffolding.
Poems rise from baring
one’s soul.
Be brave.
Be honest.
Never hide your heart.
Let go of the words.
#32
I’ve been wondering of late
why I try to change my fate
when I can never know or see
what my fate will really be.
If I don’t really know for certain
who or what’s behind the curtain
how can I know the default or
if my future has been altered
or if I’m naively treading
the very path that I’ve been dreading
towards the fate that was laid out
before I started on about
embracing change, chasing dreams.
or switching horses in mid-stream.
If all my paths lead back to me,
I make my own reality.
#31
Earworm, Earworm,
measuring my sanity.
You and your repeating tune
are going to drive me mad.
Earworm, Earworm,
measuring my sanity
This is the result, it seems,
when melodies go bad.
#30
Sun falls through the trees
raven shadows call to me,
flicker ‘cross my face.
I will hold this day;
The smell of the forest floor,
soft wind on my face,
rough bark ‘neath my hand.
The tang of wild raspberry
lingers on my tongue.
I will hold this day.
Take it out and set it free
some cold winter’s night.
#29
Believe in answers
and they will follow you home
and call you by name.
Your only problem
will be sorting them out and
choosing the right one.
#28
The road to Nowhere
is paved with good intentions
Not Hell, but Nowhere.
Nowhere is a spot
on the side of the road where
hope ran out of gas.
Don’t blame intentions,
they’re only a starting point.
Next time bring a map.
Bring along a friend.
Travel roads paved with laughter;
they lead to Somewhere.
#27
Even though I didn’t see
my poem hanging from a tree
The Han Shan poetry project saved
a rainforest from the ‘dozer blade.
Now I have a choice to make
Should I agree to let them take
my poem and hang it up again?
I must consult my poet friends
and speak of poetry and of ethics
to see if I can gain perspective
on conflicting thoughts and issues.
Stay tuned readers, to be continued…
#25
We try to be the best we can
but if we do not understand
what that best could really be
we’re missing opportunities
to plumb the depths and reach the heights
of all the many things we might
achieve if we just looked inside.
Do or do not – there is no ‘try’.
#24
There are daisies ‘round my door,
purple daisies ‘round my door,
nodding as the errant drops
land upon their sunny tops.
Raindrops like a leaky faucet
running a Rube Goldberg gauntlet
threading convoluted jigs
through aspen leaves and willow twigs.
Slither, plummet, then rebound
another inch towards the ground.
Gravity is gently calling
to the raindrops wildly falling.
Closer now they group then dash
apart in one last valiant splash
and leap one more time before
they bop the daisies ‘round my door.
The purple daisies ‘round my door.
#23
Linda Studley 