Poem of the Day: On Writing

 I get this urge, this tingle, this restless feeling

As I sit in my chair.  It’s like a cup running over.

All these words I read and respond to everyday–

I look for meaning, for clarity, for surprises, for ideas.

I find lots of all that from all the writers.

And then I start to pout:  My turn!

I wanna.  I wanna.  I wanna write too.

I wanna see my ideas on the page

I wanna churn the insides and see what comes out

I wanna goof around and write poorly

To see…to see…


To see what I have to say?

To see if I can do it?

To see if I’m any good?

To see if I can impress myself?

To mean something, with words?

To be alive, to not drift.

I can’t help myself.

I do love it so.


Sure would like to see your Poem of the Day!

32 responses to “Poem of the Day: On Writing

  1. A nice long walk in the park this morning
    Singing in my mind, a song by Third Day
    “Show me Your glory
    Send down Your presence
    I want to see Your face”
    A tiny leaf floating from the tree limb above me
    It floated in tight little circles
    in a straight line to the ground
    There it was
    The revelation I had craved
    tears stinging my eyes
    What, are you kidding?
    My Glory? It’s all around you, why can’t you see
    Look at the trees looming high above your head
    Notice the green grass, the electric blue sky?
    The white cotton clouds; butterflies,
    all different colors, shapes, sizes?
    What do you mean, “Show me Your glory?”
    It’s all around you
    You’re in the midst of it
    Even the bees you wave away from your face
    If not for them, those yellow wild flowers
    you enjoy so much—they wouldn’t exist
    What do you mean ‘I want to see Your face’?
    Didn’t you see it when you looked in the mirror today?
    Didn’t you see it when you looked upon that man stomping past you as if he were angry at the whole world?
    He doesn’t recognize it there either
    But that’s not your call
    Look upon that face and see Me, My glory
    You have to open your eyes
    and not only your eyes
    Open your heart
    Quit looking through the eyes of everyone else
    But don’t quit looking!
    Strip back the cataracts the world has worked
    So hard to create
    You can’t miss Me
    My glory, My face,
    they are everywhere
    in everything

  2. While she slept silent
    we sang songs of hope
    we prayed her safety
    we kissed her coming

    She was formed perfect
    her mother’s cheeks
    her father’s hair
    her lips like a tear

    So she has gone to God
    who sees with a perfect eye
    who knows her cheeks, her hair, her lips
    who holds her until

    And they shall go to her then
    a picture, a family three:

  3. Alone I Walk

    Alone I walk in wraith-like fog
    Searching for the one whose might
    Will open doors I cannot see
    And flood my eyes with unseen light.

    Abandoned to obscurity,
    Stumbling now in thirsting quest
    On bended knees I persevere;
    I dare not halt, I dare not rest.

    The path I take is merciless,
    Leads me to arid desert’s waste
    Usurps my soul of life’s own blood
    To underscore the need for haste.

    I scrutinize, peruse, inspect,
    And yet my search remains in vain,
    As nowhere can I find the one
    Whose bounty could my soul sustain.

    From whence will come the treasured words
    To fill the mind with writing’s fare
    If never do I fathom where
    My muse doth hide in secret lair?

    (This was meant to be a tongue in cheek writing about my muse being AWOL. It seems to have taken on a life of its own.)

  4. I will myself off my pillow
    Early again this morning.

    Scented soap suds steal
    Lingering sleep silently from my skin.

    I hesitate
    And look up.

    The face in my mirror
    Is the same one
    Reflected yesterday.

    I sigh.

    I long to see more,
    More than that me
    Of so many pale yesterdays.

    After I lift up and
    Onto my feet,
    I won’t stand before the mirror.

    Its lies do unfairly;
    Its reflections don’t
    Expose the altered being,
    The me underneath.

    A lighter heart and soul
    Since I picked up my pen
    Has made the world
    Kinder to look out on.

    I’ve longed for and now embrace
    The peace in me as I look
    Outward and I’m assured
    Only to seek that feeling.

    I’m not my reflection.
    I’m not my reflection.
    I’m not my reflection.
    I’m not.

    • I can’t see anything wrong with your reflection, unless that is you’re in a house of mirrors.

    • I relate. We’re so much more than what we see in our reflections, and isn’t it amazing how much more aware of that we are after we started writing. I especially like the part that begins, “A lighter heart and soul…”

  5. Languid Language and Light

    Without your light I’m
    a widowed bride,
    wedded bliss removed,
    given unto death,
    loves fugitive

    My dress turn from white
    to somber charcoaled
    ash, then black decay

    Your haunting regard,
    laggardly weaving
    memories of long
    ago onto broken
    window panes

    A candle in the
    sill, silent, waiting,
    brilliance toned bleary

    When I’m lost, afraid,
    searching for my way,
    I seek your flickered
    dance, spot your
    siren song

    Soothed by your stare
    I meander, obedient
    to your call

    Entranced by your grace
    lavished by your light –
    languid language

  6. I’m working way too much these days, and happy that I can. Thus my bringing up one of my works just after my father died. I lighten up and hopefully write something new soon. Until then…

    The Yearn

    The river ran deep
    during this drought,
    Until the well ran dry.
    Only so much one can take,
    Only so much you can cry.

    They say there are
    Lessons that we’ll learn
    Things we’ll never see,
    But it doesn’t take away
    The everlasting Yearn.

    Yearn for one last hug
    One more laugh.
    One more smile.
    Yearn for the day before
    And hope that it would last.

    But life goes on
    Sometimes wishing it wouldn’t.
    Left here for some unknown reason
    For a higher purpose
    If only for a season.

    • Walk, this poem begs to be sung. I can hear the guitar twang in the background as I read it. It really hits on the universal condition and would make a great C&W song, I think.

    • Your poem is moving. My mother passed last year and I know that feeling of wanting one more hug, one more smile–one more chance.

  7. Well, this is definitely NOT great poetry nor great art, but it describes my Friday to a T:


    Break: water main
    Boil water: through week-end
    Heat index: 105 degrees
    Work: all day

    Change: attitude/latitude

    Ocean pier
    Tiki bar
    Surf’s up
    Sun’s down
    Pink clouds
    Blue sky
    Blues band
    Blue Moon
    Full moon
    Way more
    One more
    Last call.

    Night, y’all.


    Too much to drink at a party and
    A power play fight between them
    Was what started the horror.

    They left the party.
    He shouldn’t have been driving.
    A misjudgment at a stoplight.

    Created the reason for outrage
    From a car full of hoodlums
    Just out for a fight.

    Their car forced to a stop
    At the side of the road.
    He was pulled out into the street.

    Some holding him, others punching
    Bashing and beating him
    Until he could no longer see.

    Outraged she jumped into the fray
    But was flung to the side of the road
    And then they were gone.

    Getting him back into the car
    She quickly, then soberly, drove them home
    Not knowing how badly he was hurt.

    At home and safe
    He sunk into the tub
    Hot water eased the pain.

    Broken ribs, black eyes
    Bumps and bruises emerged
    As the night went by

    Some nights her sleep is halted abruptly
    And her heart pounds as that horror is relived.
    They both survived, but their marriage didn’t.

    • Very powerful images; it’s no wonder you sometimes sill have spoiled sleep, and such a vivid memory of it. I have to shake my head that I survived some of my stupid phases.

  9. Wow, PW, pretty strong stuff! Here’s hoping it’s fiction….

    • Nope. It was back in my “stupid” years – a very defining time in my life. Even thought it was 35+ years ago, I am, on occassion, awakened by this nightmare.

      • I think the ‘stupid’ years — providing we live through them — offer great grist for the writer’s sense & sensibility mill.

      • I often wonder if we spend the last 35+ years of our lives recovering mentally from the first 35+.

        God knows that physically I’m feeling the pain of all of my stupid years. Maybe the mental healing is supposed to balance the two.

      • Momma always told me that stupid is as stupid does, I guess momma was right. My stupid phase ended when I was thirty and became divorced. Wised up fast.

  10. Guess I’m a sl0w learner. My stupid years lasted until I was 65. After that I figured it didn’t matter any more.

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