How The Flower of Spring Remains

April is National Poetry Month.  What better way to commemorate this event than with another poem.  Don't worry.  If you are not a poem fan, next week I will be posting something other than a poem.  This poem also follows the last poem that I wrote in theme.

How The Flower of Spring Remains

The tree had grown strong

Lived a long, full life

Provided shade

Provided beauty

Provided solace
The seed feel from the tree

Wanting to be like the tree

Strong and happy

Full of life

The wind carried the small seed

Along the Earth it flew

Carried past majestic mountains

Not wanting to land there

And mar the beauty

Past shorelines of an ocean

Deep, wild, savage strength

Not wanting to be swallowed by the intensity

The seed breezed on the wind further

Over fields of growth

Sustaining the world-weary travelers

The seed was not ready to settle

Among the crowd of many

Wanting to stand out on its own

The air gained strength through the storm

Carrying the seed faster than it wanted to go

Nothing to hold to

It tried to just follow the ride

Past large buildings of corporate vanity

Homes of quiet desperation

A storm was brewing

Clinging to air

The seed begged never let me go

Tempest was easier to hold onto than salvation

Time flew past

And the seed clung to flurry

Knowing the storm more intimately

Than the pardon of serenity

But now tired from the journey

The seed was losing its will

Finally feeling a great release

And the painful impact of the ground

Finding a small, empty space to rest

In a field of nondescript nature

The field was barren

A forgotten battlefield

Memories of pain and grief

Seeped into the Earth

This much anguish

Remains permanently etched

Onto the most beautiful, innocent of essences

Invisible scars that can not be erased

Just hidden

Like a layer of brick

Covers the broken of heart

Or the blanket of a harsh snow

Covers a vulnerable earth

Protecting itself from the elements

The seed settled into the land

Settled into the cold and rain

Waiting for the sunlight

Hibernating under a sunless sky

Pushing and pulling against time

Burying itself against the onslaught

Never leaving the warmth of passive protection

To face the indifference, the rage, the heartbreak of love

Just as the wind never stops blowing somewhere

Or the sun eventually fights the cloud

To shine the victor upon the land

The seed grew and

A flower emerged from the little seed

Weak but resilient

Around it the memories of ugliness

Trying to grow on a field of heartache

Battles never forgotten

Just learned from

Up from this Earth the flower grew taller

Seasons pass

Petals fall, returning again after rebuilding

There it sat alone and wanting

Reaching up in the day

To the big light in the sky

Offer a prayer of solace

From the loneliness, from the journey, from the pain

Surviving hunger, drought, floods, earthquakes, darkness and bleakness

Seeing one day

The clouds roll over the land

Dark and ominous

Full of anger and hate and self-protection

Soldiers arrived

Boots on the ground

Tramping and hunting

Seeing not beauty

Just the red of rage and indignant rightness

Each side facing off

Brother against brother

Expectation, anticipation

The malady of the ages

Like the quiet before a storm

The air too thick to breath

The heart too loud to heart

Like a gunshot marking a race

The world can change in a moment

Lonely ennui

Turns to trembling despair

Bright, radiant happiness

Shifts swiftly to abject defeat and heartbreak

Holding onto the wind once again

Looking for the strength to survive

Not just the battle but the war

Echoed memories of pain

Returning once again

Like a math problem that continues without an answer

Will this ever end?

The growing sameness of pain

Learning each time to maim and destroy

This time more casualties

This time more cracks and pieces removed

From the goodness of a heart

Is all that remains empty, blackness

Or like the seed

That fell onto a barren field

Full of memories of hatred, pain and grief

Will a flower grow

Cover the darkness

Hiding the vulnerability

As the flower is trampled

Bent trying not to break

Once the fighting is done

Will it again rise again from the ground?

How does a flower grow within the cracks of the land?

Nothing ever returns the same

The death of one moment may not be the end

The flower lying weakened and gasping on the ground

Buried against the indifference of a world

That did not see it

Invisible to the weak that shine with auspiciousnesses

It returns back to the ground

It returns home

Into the arms of the ground

Sleeping, weeping the blood red tears of pain

Just as the rebirth of Spring

Always follows the death of Winter

The flower emerges

From the desperation of memories

Its stem is stronger

Its leaves are fuller

And its strength more enforced

Against the nature of humanity

To prove is value over another

The wind can blow harsh

But it stands firm

Bending not breaking

It laughs without the purity of innocence

But the appreciation of breath

Purpose to the pain

Where understanding remains none

Your boots can trample over me

Your words can cut deep through me

Leaving me bleeding on the battlefield alone

But out of the pain

The flower still grows stronger

Through the wounds of my heart

This is how the flower of Spring grows

This is how the flower of Spring survives

This is how the flower of Spring remains

It grows in the wounds of pain

It hides the desperation of a heart

It does not concede defeated

It continues living each season

From seed to flower

Like a cycle of strength

Never to be undone.

Will Spring Ever Return Again?

The winter stretched out
long and cold
the land lay barren
the fields fallow
the bird’s song was sad
the air crisp and angry
Darkness reigned over sunlight
Cold reigned over warmth
Will the Spring ever return again?


The face of my enemy stayed in front of me
The hand of my friend no longer on my back
I stood alone in battle
Weapon in hand
Wondering where you went
Who used to fight with me and for me
Whose words of love
Now fall with undeserved distrust and malice
Will peace ever return to this land again?

The sun hid behind the dark clouds
The moon stays within the darkness
The stars afraid to shine
The oceans stopped rolling
The sea sat quiet
The wind stopped blowing
Through the leaves of the tree
All remained still, savage
Will the world start to revolve again?

Days have turned into weeks
Weeks have turned into months
Yet the seconds of the clock
Pounding through my head
Move languidly, slowly
Our time together not enough
I have counted each second we have been apart
Will time start to count again?

The pens have all dried up
The pencils all stubbed out
Paper stays blank, words lose meaning
Books have been sewn shut
Poems torn asunder
Plays are shut down
Paintings hanging have no color
There is no encore at the end
Will ignorance be forgotten again?

People don’t talk without shouting
Or love without hurting
They ignore the suffering
And esteem the extravagance
The truth is hidden
Behind too many masks of lies
You call this depression
Yet it is your knife that has sliced through my heart
Will happiness ever shine again?

The heart that used to beat so fast only for you has stopped
Leaving just a cavernous echo, phantom pain
The blood that coursed
Now barely flowing, quietly weeping
The eyes that glowed
Now live in perpetual sorrow and deluge
The soft words whispered
Now dispassionate rebuke
Will I ever feel again?

The farmer that watches his fields
Sit barren and infertile
Sees a sprout of green
Struggling but surviving
Growing and adapting
Flourishing and then flowering

The soldier that took up arms
Stops and sets down his rifle
He looks up at the sky
He sees the stars and the moon
Shining down in memory
And knows he fights because peace will reign again

The rain is retreating into acceptance
The clouds begin to sweep away the doubts
The air becomes crisp with rebirth
Making the sounds of bells dance on the breeze
And a rainbow forms
Showing that the world never stopped moving, I did

The clock on the wall chimed
Reminding me of you
As a memory fills the void
Instead of ticking like a bomb
Time is not my enemy, nor my friend
Time is just where I put my memories that count again.

The words flow under me like water
The blank page no longer my competitor of creativity
But my canvas of expression
Where I can leave my anguish and insert my joy
I write down my story
Remembering that wisdom often comes with scars

People who shout can also whisper
And people who hurt may have been hurt too
Strength comes out of the ashes
Like a phoenix rising
To turn those shouts into a whisper and love into compassion
So that happiness is not about you or them, but inside of me

Your knife may have sliced my heart, but I am still standing
You can hurt me and you can kill me
You can stop the Earth, shut down the cities, lock the doors, and seal the windows
You can dig my grave with your words or drown me with your guile
But my love for you will still be real, an anguished and cherished absolute
No rebuke or contempt can distort my existence

Will I ever feel again?
Will happiness ever shine again?
Will ignorance be forgotten again?
Will time start to count again?
Will the world start to revolve again?
Will peace ever return to this land again?
Will the Spring ever return again?

Silence…

A Childish Dream and A Writer's Oath

You may have noticed, but I had to take a little break.  It has been a couple weeks now since my last blog post.  Between writing on my novel, writing my poems, looking for my short story idea I had this fall that I want to work on (which is still missing and making me crazy!), and writing for work, I got a bit of writer's burn out.  This was very much different than writer's block.  When I have writer's block it feels as if there is someone in my head not letting the ideas pass through the gate of creativity.  Writer's burn out is a bit different.  I had ideas coming into that same gate but I was carrying too much in my arms to make it all the way through. I would sit down to edit Chapter Thirty and Chapter Thirty-One or even start to write Chapter Thirty-Two and my pen simply was too tired to actually put the thoughts on paper. So, I took a little break. A type of spring break for the writer.

During that break I got to focus on other things and did not stress over my writing or lack there of.  I still did my work writing but I did other projects for work also.  I saw that the sun was out and luxuriated over this fact which made me a bit lazy for a bit.  I got to spend my evenings having thoughtful discussions or playing tennis or simply sitting and watching exciting movies and television.  It was a writer vacation. Even the best of writers, which I am not self-proclaiming, need time to recoup, reorganize and relax.  By the end of these two weeks though I felt my brain get a bit jumpy and my fingers a bit itchy.  Thus as I sit here excitably typing away my thoughts I can say, "She's baaaaack!" (Poltergeist style)

One of the interesting thoughts I had over the past two weeks still involved writing and ideas.  That does not go far from a writer's mind ever.  Yet, I also starting thinking about writers as a whole.  I remember having a conversation about "What did you want to be as a kid?"  Sometimes as adults in a fast paced world we forget the ease of those childish wishes because of the work that is needed to put into even just a daily life.  I remember wanting several careers. My earliest recall was a deep desire to be a nurse.  That soon fell away when I went to visit my grandfather in the hospital and discovered it involved needles and blood.  That is not how I pictured the romantic-style life of nursing.  Yuck!  Then, I wanted to be a dancer. I wanted to take ballet and become graceful and swan-like.  Given my propensity for clumsiness and scraped shins I am going to say it was probably wise I did not follow that career path.  My mother always accused me of highly emotive dramatic behavior so I am sure at several points in life she thought I would be an actress.  I am still dramatic of course but it was none of these paths that led to my passion.

As early as I can remember, I recall writing.  As a young child even I wrote.  I wrote on everything unfortunately.  My mother scolded a few times for clothes that were marked and I do recollect incidents when toothpaste had to be applied to the wall to wash off my pen markings.  The whole world was my notepad apparently.  Writing was always in my life. Being a writer was always a dream that was always present. Yet, as I sat there one day during my brief respite from writing it made me ask myself, "What kind of writer am I?"

This is a question that seems easy to answer.  Yet, when we think of our childhood dreams where the idea of being a writer formed did it envision the writer I am today? No, of course not.  People age and experience life making beliefs and thoughts take on a more dimensional shape.  Am I a writer like Maya Angelou or Ernest Hemingway or Shakespeare?  Yikes, no.  They are who I admire and look up to for writing but not who I am as a writer.  Ironically I had a discussion about my writing recently that also made me realize who I am as a writer.  There were a few realizations about me that I have cemented, at least in my mind:

1.  When in doubt a poem's my out - I started out writing poetry very young. I was first published when I think I was 12 years old.  (Yes, it looks like a 12 year old's poem but I am still proud.) Poetry is my go-to writing format.  It is where I gain a lot of comfort and is a big niche for me.

2.  My writing formats though can be affected by my emotions.  Just as I mentioned my proclivities to being emotional and dramatic they do fall into my writing and shape it.  I often write poems with a serious, maybe even darker, tone while my short stories are lighter in nature.  My novel is a great combination of both of those. It has elements of great drama. It also has moments of light laughter.

3.  I am still that emotional, dramatic girl but this is not a bad thing after all when you are a writer. I am a very sensitive person but it is who I am. That sensitivity allows me to feel empathy and can often shape my creativity.  A sensitive person can make a great writer.  They feel and feel a lot but those feelings are translated and placed into stories and poems.  Writers are able to create and express stories because of the realm of emotion that exists inside of them.

4.  I may never be famous. I may never get published but I will never give up my writing.  Writing for me is not about becoming famous, although that would be exciting.  It is not about getting as much published as I can, although I will continue to try to be published.  Writing for me is like one of my senses.  Just as I have sight and touch and smell, I have writing.  Writing is a part of me that does not go away and even if it only ends up for me a the small circle that read my materials it won't stop me from writing.

5.  I will always love when I hear that someone has discovered my writing or every time I get published.  I am proud of my writing.  Not everything will resonate with everyone but it is my outlet.  Writing is my friend, therapist, parent, sibling, and dream.  I love to share my writing.  When I discovered my poem had been used in someone's wedding ceremony I felt great pride of the work I created not just because it received recognition, but because it affected someone enough that they had a connection with it as I had.

And finally...

6.  I will always hate commas.  I will also usually be a bit too verbose and love to insert big words.

This is who I am as a writer. It does not change anything moving forward but it made me see that the little girl dreaming about being something grand is still in there dreaming.  The adult woman I am is also proud of herself for what I have created with my writing and that I still have that same passion as a kid with just a lot more work and direction now included.  It is chasing a constant dream but it is one I never want to wake from and not have it be true.  This is my oath to myself and to my writing.