Spent most of my day with a friend, her children and her very ill father. A small poem wanted out this evening. It wants to be sung, but I don’t have the notes yet.
And I Will Sing for Your Father
And I will sing for you father
Although I know him not,
And I will call you sister
Despite the truth- you’re not,
And I will hold your children
And stoke their shiny hair.
They may not call me Mama
But I will still be there-
‘Cause there’s a greater truth than bloodlines
And there’s a stronger love than names.
The world may not call us family
Still we are just the same.
The first was written for a writing prompt at The New Brunswick Writer’s Group
Are part of life
No matter how hard
I try to drop the Im
It is still what I M
The second was inspired by the quick thunder storm that passed my way this evening.
Crisp, clean sheets- 200 of them
And sparkling ink from a frou frou pen
Six bucks spent in hopes of inspiration
To tell of worlds unknown and
Untellable by any other soul-
Just mine- all mine
Break the block, break the ice
Stir things up and make them flow
In a new direction- in any direction
To poetry, if it must
Instead of my half-done masterpiece
(At least it is pen to paper
At least it is valiantly attempting
At least it is something- anything
Going out from my consciousness)
Ahh- I love the smell of gel-pens in the morning.
Ladles in the snow,
Soup cans stacked to heaven,
Pot lid cymbals and
Tissue box guitars,
Plastic in the dirt and
Pinesap in my hair.
The endless afternoon of a
Simple childhood joy lasts
Until the streetlights come on.