Poemish

Poetry is a foreign territory for me. I admire how the poets create worlds and catch thoughts with carefully selected words. I am exploring it. In the last year I have bought more poetry books than in the last twenty years.
I experiment with writing it. I love how Peter H. Reynolds encourages art with "Ish." I use his encouragement to try writing poetry.
Daring to share some poemish writing here.

........................

You think you are doing
it all right -
the right ingredients,
the right words,
the right colors.
All seems perfect at night.
Yeah, right!
Dream on.
Morning laughs at you.
Magic doesn't grow on trees.
Reality suffocates your dreams.
Proverbs might be right.
Silence is golden.

...............

Where are my
idea mines,
word gems,
thought treasures?

They see,
the others,
the wordsmiths and mind masters,
they see and understand,
know how to dig deeply
to discover diamonds,
to cut and polish
the jewels,
word after word,
creating beauty.

I read,
loose my hope,
drop my heart,
and stir oatmeal porridge.
I do the dishes,
sweep the floors,
fold the laundry.

Perhaps,
I don't need gems.
A tiny lumpy
sea salt smelling pebble
fits perfectly in my palm,
holding memories
of the free and joyful summers,
of the light and the laughter,
of family.

My words
hide with the wild strawberries
among the wild flowers,
nest with the pebbles
on the sea shore,
swim with peppermint leaves
in the morning tea.

I pick up my heart
and my pen
and write.

________________________

I thought that
nobody writes poetry
by opening a journal
and jotting
perfect words down.
I was wrong.
For some the words
slid out from fingertips
like ballerinas
pirouetting onto a stage.

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