Writer of words. Builder of worlds.

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The Sun, the Moon, the Stars to Me: A Poem

To me you are the sun, my love
The fire of my world
The glorious blaze that warms my days
And shines so high above

To me, my love, you are the moon
The moon so round and full
Your circling dance and gentle gleam
Will always lift my gloom

To me, my love, you are the stars
The jewels of the sky
The guiding lights for travellers lost
So bright, so fair, so high

I’d love to be the world to you
My sun, my moon and stars
So let me bask beneath your light
And admire you from afar.

Dine with me: a poem

If you’d be so kind
to dine with me tonight
Give your time tonight
if you’re so inclined
I will bring some pie
while you try not to pry
into the lies I tell
Time will fly
You’ll stay behind
We’ll eat ’til the light
dies in the sky
You will not whine
though you may sigh
at the meat soaked in brine
You’ll say it’s fine
You’ll say it’s not dry
and then you will try
to never dine
with me or mine
again.

Just Waiting: A Poem

Just me in this house
Just me and my clock
Nothing left but to look
out the window
and wait

Just me in this room
Just me and my watch
Nothing left but to watch
the seconds tick by
and wait

Just me in my head
Just me and my thoughts
Nothing left but to think
and to listen
for footsteps
returning
and wait

and wait
and wait…

Forest Twilight: a poem

The orange sun setting
Somewhere ahead
Beyond our sight

Through dense wood
Still are slanting
Glimmers of light

Below a carpet
Of red gold leaves
Crunching beneath

We’ll stop soon
Beside this path
And rest well tonight.

Clear and Bright Festival: A poem

Yeah, so I’m a little tired of using Canva. The poetry challenge is still going well, but instead of regaling you with all the poems (good, bad, and mediocre) I’ll stick to the one that was most personal.

Something people often don’t realise is that ancient China also used a solar calendar. They were farmers, after all: they needed to keep track of the seasons. Clear and Bright Festival, sometimes known as Qing Ming or Tomb Sweeping Festival, is a festival that takes places on that solar calendar, around the 4th or 5th of April each year. Here in Australia, my family celebrates it on Good Friday, so we can easily get the day off. We go to the cemetery, burn incense, display food, and burn paper money, gold, and cloth (the idea being that the smoke rises to heaven and, I guess, brings the gold and money and cloth with it). For global pandemic reasons, we didn’t actually celebrate this year, so I wrote this poem instead:

Poem a Day Challenge, April 2020: Days 1-5

So I’ve been participating in this year’s Poetry Challenge from Writers Digest, only following the prompts a day behind because my time zone means I’m too early to get the actual day’s prompt, apparently. I’ve also done some experimentation with Canva to make them look pretty. Let me know what you think!

Empty Restaurant: A Poem

Empty tables stand
under glowing orange globes.
Wine glasses glisten.
Doors open, letting
cold air blow in, shivering
people order, then
leave when food is done.
Kitchen returns to quiet,
prepping for the rush
that may never come.
Waiters waiting wistfully,
seats remain empty,
the whole building waiting to
be filled with diners to fill.

If Only I Could: A Poem

This is a Rimas Dissolutas — a poem where the rhymes are not in the stanzas, but across the stanza (i.e. line 1 of the first stanza rhymes with line 1 of the second, and so on). This one kind of got away from me. I started with the image of flying and did not expect to be writing about regrets. But that was the way the words fit together. I guess that’s the fun of poetry. Anyway, here goes:

A Morning ‘Wake-Up’ Poem

This is something I wrote in the quest to become more of a morning person. I’m not one, at all, but I’ve found that if I’m not at least a little productive in the morning the day tends to be less productive overall. Apparently snoozing is bad, but my bed is too comfortable for not snoozing to be easy. So this is something I’ve stuck next to my bed. The idea is that when my alarm rings, I recite this poem and then get out of bed immediately after the last line:

Stars and Night: A Poem

This poem is an attempt to use the same structure/rhyming scheme as Robert Frost’s Fire and Ice.

Can we place trust in distant stars
When it is night?
When past regrets deal out their scars
When times of darkness come to pass
Will blackness truly blind our sight?
Or will hope, fearless, pierce the dark
And shine through tiny points of light?
Could just one spark
Light up the night?

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