Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Neologism Poem

The writing prompt was to create a word, and use it as subject of a poem. This was all I could come up with. However, my poem doesn't reveal its true meaning of the word, but its essence.

A meop came to me and asked if I could
take it under my wing.
It would only be temporary and oh, such a brief stay.
Why, it's hardly noticeable.
I welcomed it to shelter
under the shade of my soul.

It scurried quickly to bury its head first
next to me, and then nestled its heart
close to mine.
Before I could realize it,
the meop’s heart was fusing into mine.
My breathe was halting
just as its breathe was.

Suddenly I longed to take shelter in its soul.
The warmth and energy it emitted was
more luscious, more lucent
than my own.
The rise of energy lead
me to a moment of clear elation
yet a light intoxication
of a love and power
so divine that it could not be mine.
I surrendered to the meop and apologized
for thinking I could be its shelter,
when I was the one who needed it.

"It was at that age that poetry came in search of me"

Monday, July 13, 2009

The Dance of Enchantment

So, my friend D. is courting a young lady and commissioned me to write a poem to help woo her. He's quite smitten and excited about her. I accepted the challenge to write a love poem though I've never met her. Her MySpace page confirmed she was a belly dancer and had eclectic interests in theater. It gave me some ideas. So I banged this one out quickly; he was IMing me while I was writing!

The next day, he told me she did like it. I kinda liked it too, and thought I'd share it.

The Dance of Enchantment
He first heard the tinkle
when he thought he was alone.
It was this stirring chime that
caused his heart to blink
a little faster, a little more in tempo.
It was a rhythm anew, yet familiar.

The golden chimes announced her before
she floated into the room
like a willowy bird.
Each step pulsed a song, guided by the thrust of her hips.
She let him watch the trembling movements,
knowing he was mesmerized
by her alluring dance

Her arms reached up to touch the sun.
She plucked it with the grace of ages and
tossed it around her wrists. Her silver bangles hummed
as he silently mouthed the lyrics to this new song.

A silken scarf flew into the air,
fluttering downward into gentle folds
and casting their charms upon him.
He gathered the scarf and breathed in
the soft aroma, allowing himself to succumb to the intoxication.

Her laughter had sparkled
and left a lingering glow
that he must follow.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Traces of Emily

This poem landed in my inbox from Poemhunter.com. I have always loved Emily Dickinson, and did a few deeper studies of her work. I don't remember reading this poem, but I found that it reminded me of one my poems. Perhaps I did read this, and traces of this poem had stayed with me in my mind.

"Why do I love" You, Sir?
Because—The Wind does not require the Grass
To answer—Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.

Because He knows—and
Do not You—And We know not—
Enough for Us
The Wisdom it be so—

The Lightning—never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut—when He was by—
Because He knows it cannot speak—
And reasons not contained—
—Of Talk—
There be—preferred by Daintier Folk—

The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me—
Because He's Sunrise—and I see—
I love Thee—


Violet Hours

And though they share the breath of Dawn,
the morning Dew does not
listen to the Stars.
She surfaces when she chooses.
One day, she realizes that

there is a song she had not heard before.
The Stars.
They rise alone,
and long to touch the other,
to know what it means to glisten
in the violet hours.

Dew stands atop cushions
of Grass, but she

We mustn’t try to so hard.
We should stay where we are.

Oh, would you have me dance alone,
ne’er be able to wipe your delicate tears?

Dew leaps and the Stars dive,
but each fades into the arms of the Sun.

Thursday, April 23, 2009



I still think of you fondly, she said to him.

Fondly? It might as well be “pondly,”
a stagnant body of algae-laden water.

No, fondly as in how the sun kisses
a watercolor portrait.
The paints have faded, leaving a dark outline of the images.
Faint pastel colors remember and blush at
the passion and vibrant colors
they knew that adorned my world.

When I think of you fondly,
the flaws and mistakes are erased
and only the delightful moments are outlined.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Writers' Resolutions

This was forwarded to me and I saved it. Now, I must remember it and live it.

I will write every day. Whether it's an e-mail or a short story, I will write carefully and well, and I will take my writing seriously.

I will accept that which I cannot change. I will accept the rejection that comes with the submission process. I will graciously accept other writers' successes without whining about my own frustrations. And I will accept where I am in my writing career.

I will always have a certain number of submissions circulating while I work on still more pieces.

I will master the query letter, the synopsis, and the book proposal. Period.

I will set manageable and attainable goals—and stick to them. I will break down daunting tasks into realistic goals and enjoy the satisfaction of checking them off my list.

I will try different types of writing and explore new markets. Experimenting in new genres will make me a more well-rounded writer, and I may discover a new talent!

I will read more. I will pay careful attention to character development, plot, and dialogue, and I will emulate those traits in others' writing that appeal to me as a reader.

I will finish unfinished projects and revise old work. In the process, I may find a gem of a piece that risked languishing forever unread.

I will attend a writers' conference and make new contacts. I will find a conference that showcases one of my favorite authors, and I will make the most of the experience.

I will get organized. I will create a workspace that lets my creative juices flow, and I will organize the business side of my craft. If I set myself up as a serious writer, others will treat my writing as a serious endeavor as well.

I will claim my dream of being a writer—and I will not let anyone take my dream from me. I will take criticism into consideration, but I will not let it define me.

I will extend a helping hand to at least one other writer. It's not a competition, after all, but a road we're all traveling together.

I will treat myself kindly. I will celebrate my successes and view rejections as a learning experience.

I will remember that writing is my passion and not necessarily an easy path, and I will treasure the process as I go.

Monday, April 13, 2009


If there is a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, you must be the one to write it.
- Toni Morrison

A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
- Wallace Stevens

The poet doesn't invent. He listens.
- Jean Cocteau

Saturday, March 14, 2009


A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.
- Emily Dickinson

2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, its no longer
Inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to
-Anna Nalick ("Just Breathe")

LORD POLONIUS: What do you read, my lord?
HAMLET: Words, words, words.
-William Shakespeare

I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud.
I prayed that he would finish but he just kept right on ...
Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words.
- Robert Flack

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Mermaids Among Us

The next generation of women was born
with feet like eggplants.
They married men of the Soil, had
a child born of the Earth and they
stood on the chilly plains with lean legs.

Yet in the moonlight, their blood
ebbed and flowed with the sea.
Their tears were like salty jewels.
They didn’t know why they craved
the sonorous music of blue oceans,
the flavor of green kelp and
the sage teachings of the dolphins.

They adorned themselves with coral
and shells, yet felt empty.
“This is absurd,” they reminded themselves

With feet planted on the still and dry ground,
they hid this story deep inside.
They gave generously to the Earth and divided themselves
to attend the needs of the Soil.

In their dreams, they heard the call of the Ocean.
Their legs returned to their natural state, and
they flipped, jumped and warmed their souls in waters
caressed by the moon.

Inspired by “A Survival Guide for Landlocked Mermaids” by Margot Datz