Category Archives: poetry

why we write

writer….
Tell tell a story.

To tell our stories.

To share our hearts.

To fall apart.

To pull ourselves together.

To communicate.

To inform.

To breathe in.

To exhale.

To forgive.

To forget.

To remember.

To hope.

To kill hope.

To grieve.

To understand.

To apologize.

To express.

To think.

To garble.

To worry.

To cry.

To laugh.

To sigh.

To hurt.

To heal.

To give.

To receive.

To send secret messages.

To laugh.

To learn.

To love.

To fight.

To die.

..

We write because we have no other choice.

Because writing consumes us or we consume it.

Because it gives voice to our tears, wind to our wings, air to our everything.

..

We write because we are alive.

..

Why do you write? Do you?

..

“If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.”

– Lord Byron

..

Tagged , , , , , , ,

writer’s lament

writer's blockI’ve been trying to write a post all morning. Trying to reach deep within and pull out something deep and meaningful to which you might all relate. I’ve been thinking about black and white and gray and how I don’t believe in gray and how that is why I know religion doesn’t matter: We all know right from wrong. But instead of flowing like a waterfall, my thoughts are congested spillway blocked by matters of immediate importance: I’m stressed. Interviews and new tutoring positions (I’ve recently been signed on as a kids’ tutor at several companies in the Bay Area) are on my mind, not to mention bills and dreams and exercise things. It’s harder to ride my bike in Berkeley. I miss it.

And so I reach and fall and try and bail and am reminded of a poem I wrote more than a year ago:

I’m reaching and falling.
I’m hemming and hawing.
I’m trying and failing.
I’m rowing, now bailing.
Stop.

Another day.

And I wonder if this ever happens to you? And I wonder how authors do it? Writing comes so easily to me when my subject is on my mind. But when it’s not? Writing is like pulling teeth, only worse, because I want SO badly to do it, and do it well.

..

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

if i could go anywhere

foggy-vista-thumb..
If I could go anywhere, I would go to Carmel, on the coast of California, in the year 1990. My family would be staying at a small condo by the beach. It would be foggy and misty. I would be six years old, and my mom would be turning 32. We would be there to celebrate her birthday, and I would be laughing and twirling and calling her an old lady.

I would then take my six-year-old self on a trip around the world. I’d stop in Delhi, Dhaka, Beijing, Tokyo . . . Manila, Sydney, Cape Town, Istanbul . . . Bucharest, Athens, Rome, Lisbon . . . Moscow, Santiago, Pell City, Montreal . . . Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

love is sweeter still

photo3

I took this on my run the other day. Aren’t they cute?

You’re the one did not exist,
the one I’d never known.
The one of whom the stories list,
but life had never shown.

You came to me, I didn’t see
you ‘pproach or standing there.
I was turned toward history –
destruction and despair.

You didn’t wait for me to turn
around to say “Hello.”
Instead you swept me off my feet
and laughed, “Where shall we go?”

But still I thought of history –
was scared deep down inside.
I saw the way you looked at me,
but eyes before have lied.

But you were patient, soft, and kind;
assured me, “This is real.”
With gentle touch you did unwind
a heart I thought was steel.

And now we’re walking hand in hand
and love is sweeter still,
than storybooks, which do not stand
a chance ‘gainst what is real –

For storybooks, they have an end,
but we’ll go on and on.
There are things you cannot rend,
not even when they’re gone.

,,..
For an audio recording of this poem, click here:

.

Image: Mine. All Rights Reserve

Related Articles:

,,

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

uncertainty

blueIf songs of old,
our futures told,
would all our dreams be dying?

Would in the mist,
our lovers kissed,
we only be goodbying? . . .

Would there in space,
be time and place,
for fighting and for flying? . . .

Or would it be,
on easy sea,
that all we are is sighing?

..
If ancient lore
and tales of yore
would tell me where I’m going –

I’d tell them back
to hold their flack:
This girl will keep on flowing.

For dreams of old
our futures hold,
what ever keeps us growing.

Uncertainty’s
a friend, you see,
and far better than knowing.

..
For an audio recording of this poem, click here:

..

..

Image: Pinterest

Related Articles:

..

Tagged , , , , , ,

dead man’s lament

cemetery 3From darkness I came,
to darkness I went,
and wondered, inane,
how my days were spent.
As there in my grave,
in coffin so cool,
regret was a wave:
“Had I been a fool?”

My days had been good,
my days had been bad,
The life that I led,
was all that I had.
But what had I thought?
How far did I think?
Had I seen it not –
this critical kink?

See, money was mine,
and power and fame.
And all was a sign,
I’d much to acclaim!
And if I lacked love,
I wasn’t to blame.
That came from above,
was God’s little game! Continue reading

Tagged , , , , ,

a simple life

vfiles27343

A home overlooking Lake Folsom in El Dorado Hills

It’s a simple life, an easy life,
in El Dorado Hills.
Where cookie-cutter houses sit,
on cookie-cutter hills.
Where all the people drive to work
in fancy, shiny cars.
And all the children laugh and play
and look up to the “stars.”*

It’s a simple life, a quiet life,
in heaven’s spot on earth.
With all the fences whitely washed,
and mothers giving birth
To little ones who’ll laugh and play
and look up to the “stars,”
and grow up doing just the same,
in fancy, shiny cars.

It’s a simple life, a little life,
the one we’ve bought and sold.
Where all that matters is our health,
our riches when we’re old.
Where nothing’s to be thought, of course,
about the world outside,
for all that matters is our own,
America’s our pride.

*Stars as in celebrities

For an audio recording of this poem, click here:

..

Image: Google

Related Articles:

..

Tagged , , , , , , ,

poetry

canoe2

Poetry’s in the journey . . .

Poetry I cannot force,
it comes and then it goes.
Like a river at its source,
it ebbs and then it flows.

Words, you see, are only that,
and rhyme and rhythm, too.
Poetry’s not pit-a-pat,
but here in me and you.

–in the sun and in the rain,
the things that quiet tears;
in the love and in the pain–
experience of years.

Then the poet, what is she?
She’s nothing like a muse.
Rather, she’s a puppet, see,
and words her only use.

So poetry, my fickle friend,
I wonder what’s in store?
Will you stay until the end,
or show me to the door?
..
For an audio recording of this poem, click here:

“Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.”
Charles Bukowski

..

Note: The first stanza of this poem came to me in a moment of frustration when I was trying very, very hard to write another poem on a very different subject–and getting nowhere. Since that time, it has taken me FOREVER to finish this. Fickle is right!

Image: Pinterest

Related Articles:

..

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

glue

try too hard3You say you want the real me,
I say I want it, too.
But how can I destroy me,
reveal myself to you?

We all of us have demons,
dark things we’d rather hide.
Though, honest, we’re not heathens,
still it can’t be denied . . .

That none of us is perfect,
no beauty is unflawed.
And what appears a defect
should sometimes be hurrahed.

But maybe that’s my downfall –
it’s too late, I’ve bought in.
Won’t listen to your windfall,
perfection is my sin.

You say you want the real me,
I say I want it, too.
But how can I destroy me,
when I am my own glue?

Click below for an audio recording of this poem.

“I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.” – Robert Frost

//

Image: Google

Related Articles:

..

Tagged , , , , , , ,

the visitor, revisited

full moonTruth is, I’m struggling.

I’m reaching and falling.
I’m hemming and hawing.
I’m trying and failing.
I’m rowing, now bailing.

Stop!

Another day.

from my poem “Writer’s Block

My mind has been going a million miles an hour in a hundred different directions lately, and it’s making writing difficult. I’ve been working on a new poem (which I love) for the past several days, but I’m having a hard time finishing it. What am I trying to say? It’s a question I haven’t been able to answer . . . Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

the wild wind blows

Snow_Cavern_by_Emtoo2The wild wind blows
in caverns – slows
the beating of my heart.

In darkness deep,
where creepers creep,
I dream of days, depart –

To summer sun
where rivers run,
and all the world’s an art –

And all of love,
a perfect glove,
and you, the perfect part.

The wild wind blows,
a blanket, snows,
alone, I’m miles apart –

Continue reading

Tagged , , , ,

who we are (and where we’re going)

I don’t know about you, but I’ve always known how my life would turn out.

beach

Sanjhih, Taiwan

I knew what I wanted to be, and where I’d go to school, and who I’d marry (someday), and where I’d grow old. I knew who my friends would be, and how many kids I’d have, and that my parents would divorce, and that I’d move to Taiwan . . . I knew I’d have a serious rock-climbing accident, and that I’d survive. I knew I’d be “different,” and that that’d be okay.

I knew it all . . .

And I’ll bet you did, too. I’ll bet you’re an expert on everything that’s ever happened to you (or will) in your entire life.

Ha. Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

the thing about poetry

imagesEvery time I write a poem, it starts with the first two lines. Maybe I’m experiencing an emotion and the words come tumbling out.

The tears do tumble down my face,
the one who doesn’t cry.

Or perhaps I’m riding my bike on a cool summer evening, or walking beneath the stars.

Empty streets, and she awake,
the one who walks alone.

Maybe I’m in the supermarket, or listening to birds outside.

Little birdie out my window,
chirping, calling, “Come and play!”

Whatever it is, those first two lines are the key to the rest of the poem. They will either make or break it… Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , ,

empty streets

moonlighted2Empty streets, and she awake,
the one who walks alone.
She will not the world forsake,
and she’ll do it on her own.

There’s a love, it is an ache —
it’s all she’s ever known.
While her love the world did take,
to her, it’s never shown.

Not to say the world’s a rake,
or one she would disown.
But the moonlight makes her quake —
it’s here her heart is flown. Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

the butterfly

jar_butterflyThe tears do tumble down my face,
the one who doesn’t cry.
You wonder why I’ve lost my grace
who watch the poet die.

There is a place ‘yond time and space,
it’s here alone I fly.
And yet it’s here you’d me encase,
my wings apart you’d pry.

And so it is when you embrace
this poet from the sky,
be not surprised, in keeping pace,
if all I do is sigh. Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

beyond the walls

AWIn all the halls
and through the walls
my harried thoughts are singing.
I hear them there
and over there
like finches they are winging.

I think of you,
and you and you,
and, oh, the anguish stinging.
For every time
you seem sublime
I only end up wringing.

And so it is,
I’m only his,
the one who me is flinging.
And so I’ll go
where no one knows
and meet you there in clinging.

..

“Out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” ― Rumi

..

Image: Angkor Wat, Cambodia (mine)

Related Articles:

..

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

the watchman

moonAnd as by day the sun doth shine,
by night, oh moon, you are but mine.
For whilst the world around me sleep,
I walk alone and you doth keep.......

..

..

..

..

.. Image: Google

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

and what is beauty

746151-indore-india-girl-beauty-not-believe-but-she-poorAnd what is beauty, anyway?
And how do we decide?
If we look around the world,
it changes with the tide.

And what about the history books?
Do they all agree?
From days of yore to evermore,
not from what I see!

And so it is that beauty lies
somewhere down, deep inside.
Our differences are beautiful
and not to be denied.

..

Image: woophy.com

..

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

mirror, mirror

mmMirror, mirror on the wall,
couldn’t you just make me tall?
Thinner, too, yes, that’d be great,
with abs of steel to compensate . . .

For all I lack (it is a lot),
maybe then I would be “hot,”
worthy of the magazines,
so full of pretty, lovely things.

Or what if you just made me blind—
could we then be of one mind?
For no matter how I try,
what I see just makes me cry.

After all, you know it’s true,
looks are the important view.
It matters not what lies inside:
Beauty isn’t one to hide.

..

..

..

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

for all that you are

My beautiful picture

My mom with Derek . . . and fire!

For all that you are,
and ever will be,
I’ll love you forever,
Happy Birthday, Mommy.

.. Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , ,

wrong way

oneway2Truth be told, I’m petrified.
The world’s “success” can’t be denied.

We must fight.
We must run.
We must race ’til day is done.
We must cheat.
We must win.
We must hurry, now “Begin!” . . .

And though I know it isn’t true,
deep down I’m scared—just like you.
If I do not join the din,
what, my friends, is my fate then?

Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

seeing double (or, the airport)

sfoThe airport,
(oh, curs-ed place),
where dreams forgot
are woken—
where all’s amiss,
remembered bliss,
and I, its long lost token . . .

The airport
(oh, bless-ed place),
where winging worlds
are lighted—
where dreams unfold,
of tales yet told;
and lovers, reunited.

Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

passerby

a_smile_in_the_rain_by_dannyst600_398Why do you divert your eyes?
You and I have naught to hide.
Honest truth, we’ve never met.
We are strangers as of yet.

And all I did was smile at you,
(couldn’t help my passing through),
and yet you looked away from me,
as though I were an enemy.

And so I went along my way,
but on my way I had to say,
the world would be a better place,
if you’d return my smiley face!

Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , ,

the world from above (for real)

When viewed from above,
this world that we love,earth2
seems awfully small,
though we thought it tall . . .

And all of our lives,
just busy beehives,
like rats in a race,
pursuing the chase.

And all of our dreams,
not rivers but streams,
all flowing to naught—
or that’s what we thought . . . Continue reading

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

the world from above

IMG_0124ed

Earth from sky

When viewed from above,
this world that we love,
seems awfully small,
doesn’t it?

. . . and all of our lives,
just busy bee hives,
or afternoon drives—
in traffic?

. . . and all of the lands,
(diverse in their strands),
like so many hands . . .

Herein lies the start of a really bad poem. Good poetry comes easily to me; it’s the bad ones that are a lot of work. The beginning of this poem has been a lot of work. Continue reading

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 1,870 other followers

%d bloggers like this: