Photo by Christopher K on Unsplash
The Sky a Flawless Blue
The sky, a flawless blue,
the kind of California day,
that gets under your skin.
Scaffolds holding up the heavens
stretching against celestial infinity.
Is there a placeholder for me
in that expanse?
Feels like the heavenly court
is looking down beckoning,
demanding a reckoning
I look up and wonder,
who am I anyway?
I suppose I should have figured it out by now.
I think about what I’ve done in this life,
what gifts I’ve given the world,
what I’m most proud of,
what I wish I could do over.
I think about where I’m still needed,
what I could still accomplish,
in the remainder of my allotted days.
I pray to those luminous blue skies
that my poetry, carefully wrought, finely tuned,
will make its mark on this good earth,
leaving a legacy bigger than me
destined to live beyond.
So I’ll keep my eye on that flawless sky,
continue to weave my words
and wink at the heavens now and then,
reminding them I’m not ready to
take my place up there yet,
while I’ve still got work to do
and verses to write.
When your Muse has left the Building
for warmer climes
and you are left struggling at your desk,
bereft of ideas, of words and lines
wondering where your cleverness has gone
wondering where your wit has wandered
wondering why your creativity has cratered
and in your frustration, you realize
maybe it’s a good thing your muse has taken temporary leave
because at least she’s not pecking away at you
like an itch you can’t scratch
wearing down your confidence
making you question everything about your craft
and maybe you’ll text her to stay away longer
and have a pina colada or two at your expense
during Happy Hour
and only return when she is good and ready
to lift your spirits with sparks and resolve
so your writing will be rejuvenated
and charged with new conviction
filling pages with verses that skitter across the page
for she knows you too well
and writing poetry for you
is not just a whim; it’s real and it matters,
and is your legacy
My Own Little Beast
“That pretty little beast, a poem,
has a mind of its own.”
Sometimes I need it to vibrate, to resonate,
but it only wants to pick at a hangnail.
Sometimes I seek to capture the colors of a rainbow
or a gold-hued sunset
but it only wants to splash
a bucket of blue paint on the sidewalk
Sometimes I want it to make people feel
my words have changed them forever
but it flips me the bird
and laughs in my face
Sometimes I wish for that poem
to be etched on tablets
read aloud in poetry workshops
not disappear like chalk wiped off a blackboard
But sometimes, miraculously, that pretty little beast
makes it to the top of the pile
becomes the teacher’s pet
and takes its rightful place for eternity
inspired by That Little Beast, by Mary Oliver