Beautiful writing from Michael Erickson/The Ink Owl
Strong hands pulling down cool cups.
Steam whistling in the evening air.
A cool rag applied to a burning brow.
I know your hands, as tender as a lark on a branch.
You stir in the tea, silver clinking against mug.
Murmurs of songs long sung touch your lips.
With those hands you pluck a stick of honey, clip off the tip and begin to pour.
Gold streams from the plastic stick, mixing gently into steeping tea.
I smell peppermint.
-M.E. InkOwl
Originally posted on Brave and Reckless.
Someone asked me this week whether I was actively involved with the WordPress community and whether it had positively impacted me. I didn’t hesitate at all in answering the question: the WordPress community isn’t why I initially I came here, but it is absolutely why I stay. I have found many things in the WordPress community that I didn’t even know I needed– amazing and generous mentors, favorite writing partners, and a group of talented writers who awe me, push me to be a better writer and provide an endless source of inspiration. I have found my tribe— other writers who have walked where I have walked, felt what I have felt and do not judge me, but accept me in my fullness. They have encouraged me daily to be brave, to be loud, to be me.
I have been incredibly fortunate to be involved with several amazing writing collectives since my arrival here at WordPress and to have had the opportunity to network with writers whose work I admire and respect. This week alone I was able to be involved in two collaborative projects that I am deeply proud of: The Burning Bed and A Room So Still and Quiet It Hurts. The quality of the writing is outstanding—the quality of the souls and hearts of the writers involved even more so.
I have had the room in the WP Community to be human, make mistakes, stumble, grow, get up again, brush myself off, begin to make amends, and try again. For a control freak who feels like she has to be perfect all the time, superhuman all the time, this is a greater gift than you can possibly imagine.
I am filled this week with gratitude for the community and the opportunities that WordPress has offered me. This has become a home where I can write, love, learn, laugh, mourn, be reborn and nurture. This is why I stay on WordPress.
© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved
Hello friends and welcome back! I hope you like what is in store for you tonight.
As I often do, I wrote this piece from a male point of view; and me, I am all girly, girl female. So, I am not sure why I like writing from this perspective, but I really do. Maybe I like to think I know what goes on in a man’s mind at times.
Settle in for some Friday night After Hours poetry to light up your night a bit.
Verses Unspoken
It was her satin touch
writing unspoken lines
across my skin
verses of adoration
dripping with passion’s fire
igniting desire
in places undiscovered by others
untold secrets spilling over me
whispering through fingertips
the carnal craving of hers
crying for satiation
Me
now at full attention
unable to deny
the thrill of her intensity
pull her on top
my low, ravenous voice
murmuring,
“Let me help you
find this story’s climax
and write the ending
as one.”
Hudson Biko/Pieced By HB
Tongues twisted
and lips burned
As taste was lost
in the words
that transpired
over morning cups
reeking of hesitation
and spoons of resignation
( Slowly brewing )
© Hudson Biko
Photograph: Drew Taylor
Inspired by the Daily Prompt: Tea
Written in response to Davy D’s “Are You a Poet?”
I am a poet by heart
not choice
not decision
didn’t try
didn’t know
just wrote
and what inked my pages
was poetry by happenstance
words woven by emotion so strong
it could be nothing less
for in poetry
the soul bleeds truth
the poet can’t deny
nor anyone else
©MidwestFantasy
07/27/2017
Prompted by this morning’s post by Davy D and response by braveandreckless at the Go Dog Go Cafe .
she eschews labels
having been singed
by the hot iron
of many a branding
she simply knows
in her bones
infused with wisdom
of ageless sages
her words pour voluminous
from the depths
of the well
that is her essence
anoint the stratosphere
with inviolable droplets
from truth’s aspergillum
You can read more of Aurora’s work at Insights from “Inside”
Thank you Davy D for this morning’s inspiration
recklessly she looked deeply inside
saw fire and ice in her heart
smelled iron and cooper in her blood
felt moon and ocean tides tug her soul
knew the hum of words
crawling under skin
burning to escape
knew herself a poet
the short shortsightedness of self-declared authorities
who believed themselves arbitrators anointed from above
be damned
she knew they did not have the wisdom
the clarity
the passion
to judge
all that she was
truth would be hers alone to reveal
© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray
I really enjoyed last week’s fun in the café and thanks to you all for taking part and attempting to write the world’s shortest poem. I don’t know if any of them will overtake “Fleas” in the Guinness Book of Records, but a high five to everyone for joining in, you are all winners.
This week I am asking the question “Are you a poet?”
It seems a strange question to ask considering most people reading this post write poetry, but is the art of being a poet more than just that. The thought and question arose whilst I was conducting research for some blog posts and stumbled across a discussion asking whether the title of poet should be restricted.
There were some contrasting views, with one stating anyone calling themselves a poet should be distrusted as, “poet is a title necessarily bestowed on you by others.” Some participants suggested you should only use the term if you were a poet and wrote poetry as a full-time occupation.
Most English dictionaries describe a poet as someone who writes poetry, but is it as simple as that? For example, do you need to have had poetry published, or written a poetry book or won a poetry competition, before you can allude to the title?
In my younger days, I was once told by a teacher to beware of anyone who called themselves an expert or guru as anyone, labelling themselves as such, had stopped learning. Again, it was a title to be bestowed by others. Is it the same for poets? Can someone who recklessly uses the term poet be at risk of arrest from the Poetry Police, or is being a poet something to be shouted from the rooftops?
Are you happy to call yourself a poet, or would you rather let others use the title on your behalf?
Why not grab a coffee and air your thoughts in the café.
Thanks to Lillian from #dVerse Poetic’s Pub for hosting last week’s #dVerse prompt on Windows, looking out and looking in.
My apologies, I meant to publish this on my blog without realizing I was on Go Dog Go. So bonus poem today!
——
Credit: Jade Limcaco via UnSplash
———
Here I stand, watching the sea, in and out,
The tide flows, paces itself in and out.
Though I should be outside in the surf’s shout
Quiet of the indoors keeps me about.
By grande window stop, my mind in such doubt.
Wrapping my sweater tightly thinking long,
Of days gone by, the future’s pull a song.
Watching boats sail by, sea birds diving flout,
Captured fish, tiny sea creatures, I pause.
Unsure where to start, where to go, no hint —
Of what lies before me, from the before.
So I wait, I wander, I wait for you, flaws —
And all; unsure if you were a dream or —
Some hopeful vision, what we could become.
——-
©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.
Welcome to Spoken Word Spotlight. Every Wednesday, Christine brings a writer’s words to life. This week she brings us a heartbreaking poem about loss by Olde Punk of RamJet Poetry. Sit back, take a sip of coffee, close your eyes and enjoy.
If you would like Christine to highlight a piece of your writing, please contact Go Dog Go through our Contact Form or email us at godoggocafe@gmail.com.
Grasping convolutions
anything will do really
corrugated steel rictus
pulls at corners
a shadow play
in ritual dusk
down another
glass of slow derision
at the nearest
watering hole
wondering how and why
I am unholy
reconcile I’m alone
with the pictures
we both inhabit
I could not hold
the fire
so now I choke
on smoke
and bathe in ashes
my breath stinks
of rebellion
my words are heavy
and low, lo
unto tomorrow
riveting the compunction
to depart the now
the how and when of it
matter little
respond to extinguish
the embers
of my love, of
your ruin
I absolve myself
of any wrongdoing
It’s stern
your reflection
I return
to the objection
and babe
it’s all gone down
it’s all your fault
it’s not the noun
it’s not this town
the fade of gestalt
that I caught
standing outside
looking in at
your origins
I am spread too thin
and I know I will
not win
impart the devolution
of the anatomy
of we
I am left alone
with the memories
that we both inhabit
I still wonder why you
left-handed
the wave goodbye
but would not look
in my way
I am disinterested
with what comes next
or the aftermath
of my part, apart
I am full to the brim
of empty
I know I haven’t the strength
to begin, again.
Think I will take
a walk down to the ocean
and see if
a baptism in the cold
salt of seas
can free me
from the loss
of the pictures
we both inhabit
