Raw, primal emotion
So hard to show,
So hard to abide
Still it wants to flow.
Do we tell the truth
Or do we hide
In shadows, in darkness
Never confide.
Speak or be quiet
Hide or shine
Choose your feelings,
Or mine.
Speaking truth
Exposes your soul
Exposes you
naked and whole.
Unburden yourself
Set yourself free
Completely, uniquely
Let your truth be.
By Linda Robertson Somers
Through Karmic cycles never ending;
Through Lifetimes, wills unbending.
What seems forever beyond our reaching
are lessons wiser souls try teaching.
By Linda Robertson Somers
Death came to me in the still of night, and took me by the hand.
He said come with me my child to a far more peaceful land.
He wore a velvet cloak of the deep and darkest black,
And with him was a magic sack that he carried ‘cross his back.
When I inquired of him as to what the contents might be;
He said it was the souls of men who’d died from the beginning through eternity.
He touched my lips three times with his and pulled me from my bed.
He said I had no need to fear for soon I would be dead.
He took my hand and off we flew
thru walls and trees and morning dew.
I saw a house upon a hill
with dungeons dark and rooms to fill.
There was a game laid out to play,
and I knew I wouldn’t walk away.
In the corner were the bones
in their forever red rock homes.
By Linda Robertson Somers
One time in a far off desert land
Where only few survive
There grew a cactus strong and tall
Who somehow stayed alive.
The cactus won all men’s respect
For her spirit was so strong
That no one pulled her from the ground
Or did her any wrong.
But the cactus wasn’t satisfied
With this earthly plan
She wanted to be beautiful
And win the love of man.
One day on a midsummers night
As she began to doze
The magic of her wish came true
And changed her to a rose.
The first one to behold the rose
Was a traveler passing through,
He saw a thing of beauty
Where once a cactus grew.
He smiled as he plucked her down
That was all she knew
Man’s love, for which she died was through
He tossed her to the ground.
The need to write welling up,
Spilling over
It’s late, but here I sit
Soaking up the night
Feeling the day slip away
Stress, worries
Melt away
Along with the noise
The hustle and bustle
Of life fades away
Leaving me
Just me
My thoughts and fears
Hopes and dreams
Creativity flows here
And here alone
Poetry, fiction
Stories pour out
Only in the quite of the night
The rest of the house fast asleep
The night, she is mine
And I don’t want to share
The divine
Speaks to me here
My muse
Embedded in the dark
The quiet, the rolling away of Life
Solitude, introspection
My life plays out
For my inspection
Searching my soul,
Questioning
Everything happens
In the stillness of the night
All good things
All my thoughts and prayers
Are buried here
In the deep, dark stillness
Of the night
All the secrets of my Life
Still. Quiet. Night.
The pieces of my Life
I don’t understand the youth of today,
You say.
How were they raised?
With this sense of entitlement.
To be what they want.
Made up things,
You think.
Gay, Bi, Transgender
Upending social norms, expectations
Not bowing, not bending
What is gender fluid anyway
What does that even mean
You inquire.
Befuddled, confounded, confused.
Consternation, aggravation.
Why can’t they just
Act right
Act like you?
I look and I see that it’s true.
I don’t understand the youth of today
How were they raised?
With this sense of entitlement?
Yes, entitlement
But not like you say.
They are entitled I tell you.
Entitled to their own lives,
Their truth, their beauty
Their freedom.
Yes, freedom.
Freedom from you.
From expectations, condemnations
Judgments and scorn.
By their own values they are bound,
Not by yours.
Yes, I ask as I watch in amazement
How were they raised?
How were they raised to survive
Through the pain,
To dance in the rain.
To be who they are?
What freedom
I admire from afar.
I wish I had come of age
With that strength,
With that fire.
With that courage
To be who you are.
The world is full of pain
The world is so unfair
To those who are different
The world doesn’t care
Women, minorities
The poor
The downtrodden, the weak
What’s the score
Screaming silently it seems
No one seems to hear
Or at least to respond
To the pain and fear
Trying in vain to fix it
But others deny it’s broken
How can you fix it
If it’s not broken
Frustration, anger
That’s how it Plays out
Then it’s their fault
Not allowed to shout
Silently scream
in pain and frustration
Deny the reality
of your station
That is what
The world wants
But screw the world
Ignore the taunts
Be a warrior, speak out
It’s the only way
to make the world better
wade into the fray
Stillness. Quiet. Nothing stirs.
This is a memory, sublime;
struggle to see it clearly,
through the swirling mists of time.
Standing over a boiling pot
of water, in a trance, caught,
steam rising, water roiling,
with what danger is the past fraught?
Gazing back in time and space
In the water you can scry.
Into many other worlds
You now can happily spy.
Stuck, standing still, falling in,
crossing the veil, with the sight.
Struggling to understand,
Remember with all your might.
What we really are, and why
In a flash, through a rip in time,
you finally catch it, see it
the epiphany you find.
Creation makes perfect sense
Your soul begins to rise up,
but in an instant, instead,
you fall, the loss is abrupt.
For a split second you saw,
you understood everything.
Then in a flash it was gone,
A memory of nothing.
You can’t forget it, ever
But you’ll never have it back.
You know that you once knew it,
You will always feel its lack.
I have a friend that I trade writing prompts with and I really enjoyed this take on a poem about getting dirty. With permission, I am sharing it with all of you:
Jack walked along the country road
Humming along the way
He tripped and fell
And said, “oh hell.”
As he landed
To his dismay
In a pile of mud
Filthy mud
Oozing, wet, and sticky
All over his hands
All over his clothes
Now soggy, mired and drippy
Jack sighed
Wanted to cry
But got back up instead
And continued down the country road
Squishing the mud as he tread
by JN Quigley
I have decided that have at least two books of poetry already written. I have been writing for over 30 years after all. I have so much poetry, it just needs to be edited, organized and published. But that means going through it all, and with it, the memories. Which led to the following poem as I basically picked at scabs and poked at scars. Here it is:
Going back to the past
The pains still there
Right where I left it
Gotta unpack it, examine it
Look at it square in the eye
Measure it, claim it
Dig it out, write about it,
Make it my bitch
Everything there’s still the same
That’s why I don’t live there anymore
I’ve moved on,
Healed from it, left it, learned from it
Moved on past it
But still it wants acknowledgement
Hey, it happened, time to own it
My pain helped make me
What I am today
So it’s time to stop hiding,
Feeling ashamed,
Pushing my pain into the dark,
Deep, secret places of my heart
Like a vampire, the light will kill it
Drag it out and let it burn
Show the world what I’ve survived
No more shame, no more pain
Make it work for me
The final step, the final piece
Taking back what it took from me
So it no longer has the power
to make me bleed
Fledgling writer. Lover of chocolates, Big Brother, and all things random.
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Angela Harrison 