All poems were written in a two or so hour period each Wednesday morning, between March 31, 2010 and March 23, 2011. My math skills are not so good, but that should equal 52 poems.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Courtney could not save Kurt Not even the cheer of the crowd Sometimes, for months, on end Joy is inaccessible; some lose sight Prisoners of war survived for years If they could only recognize that the present Would pass along into some unknown future Kurt brought about his own end Alone with a gun and his drug cooker From inside the beast of addiction Where even the cries of his child Could not penetrate; only muffled echos of pain and this relentless burning; vicious desire Why not be Buddhist and just observe pain But don't lose yourself in fear
To me, poetry is raw emotion; perhaps pure emotion. I liken it to my backyard where everyday conversation is like the cut grass, inviting and crisp. Familiar even. Poetry is the wild grass and trees behind the cut lawn. It provides definition and beauty to the lawn before it. It doesn't seek to explain its existence. It just allows the wind to blow through, moving it as it will. Raw, unkept, but still guiding the soul. **I am a recovered attorney and former corporate professional, on hiatus from the Big world of Big people in Big suits. I am learning to be in a little world with a little person wearing little suits (most with zippers and snaps). I still don't know what I want to be next. But for now, I am going to just focus on being mom and the Wednesday Poet.
See blog entry explaining more about the "why" behind these poems here: