I mourn in the morning,
When no one can see.
The French press of my emotions,
Coursing through me.
My tears awake,
As the moon goes to sleep.
But when the sun says hello,
I cease to weep.
For the day returns in glory,
Calling me to live.
I tuck away day-sleeping sorrow,
For the joy I have yet to give.
I mourn in the morning,
When no one can see.
My now past yields to my present.
I am once again free.
Sometimes your life and art mesh. I’m in charge of the Treasure Island cast & crew after party this Sunday. My son was cast as Long John Silver. I have not had much time for other pursuits, but I realize that creating things for the party is art. Life & art can intersect in wonderful ways.
I’m pretty proud of the creation you see here.
Each week I must have an Artist’s Date with myself as part of the Artist’s Way journey. I wanted to go outside and find a story in pictures.
Fast forward. I’m in a hotel, and it is frigid outside. These are the photos that resulted. I find the ordinary to be extraordinary when seen through the right lens.
I’m enjoying organizing for a year of unabashed creativity in 2022. Sometimes to go forward, you briefly return to the past. And in the past are old poems in a box reminding you of a love that once was and still is.
Happy 2022!
When you are the kind of tired sleep won’t fix
And your second hand is stuck but it still ticks
When you’ve lost your bookmark in a breeze
And you need a prayer after life has brought you to your knees
When you try to drive forward while in park
And you are in a story that has no discernible arc
Look up to the sky, you are kissed by the sun
Look down at your feet where two puppies run
You are here now, a gift, tired or not
Breathe it in, breathe it out, give it all you’ve got
I started as a draft
By an unseen master of the craft
A firm pencil on my page
Broken twice in creative rage
Each word made me whole
On an endlessly tilting scroll
I’m novel and made of will
A mercurial queen of quill
I begin again at the end
A book lover’s friend
Each chapter carries my heart
Between life’s bookends, I am art.
I write the lines in my face
by the story that I place
in my mind
in my heart
I am art.
Remove a chapter
Add a scene
Put me on parchment
The plot line screams
I am dreams.
My arc goes high
the quill goes low
inky marks
scribbled line
I am fine.
The end is near
Typewriter beats
coffee runs dry
tea leaves tell
I end well.
A thousand black-winged dots above the horizon
Cut through the clouds
On an icicle blowing wind
Forming glass of water, nature’s sculpture
Shall they reach the sun above five more horizons?
Or shall they fall into the winter of the soul ?
Their dark wings collapsing in peace
For respite in the silence minus the whistle of that very same wind
She imagines the possibility under the cover of her flaming locks.
It cannot take the glow of Spring’s first warm light on my winter skin.
It cannot tilt my heart on the axis it spins.
It cannot lay claim to the adventures of my mind.
It, therefore, will not win.
It will lay bare our faults and our fears.
It has no soul. About nothing it cares.
It will ravage the old and young the same.
It will expose our mistakes and immortal shame.
And when it’s darkness towers over us, and a last stand remains,
Rush boldly we will, shedding its chains.
It cannot, it will not, it should not transpire,
A dimming of our humanity’s fire.
It cannot, it will not, it should not conspire,
For we are glass blown into steal, forged from this same fire.
Writer focused on fiction for middle-aged women with spunk
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Kelly Rogers 