Today, I'm sharing two poems I wrote for a women's writing retreat this past weekend. (And a reminder that while this blog is often about tea, it's sometimes not.)
As you read these poems, I'll share a principle that our writing class uses - assume these are fiction. The "I" isn't necessarily me in the personal.
"I have trouble telling what's real and what's a dream," says the grandfather.
The baby sighs as she sleeps. Does she dream?
I dream of past romances, but with different endings. Like I'm writing a romance novel as I sleep.
Husband leaves his body as he dreams. An adventure. The return is hard.
She doesn't dream. The meds put her to sleep, away from herself.
He doesn't remember his dreams, but he paints a world unknown to him.
They dream of not dreaming. The violations are unending.
That man has lost his dream. The zephyr no longer comes to him.
This woman calls upon her dreams to heal. Inner spirit, lead the way.
I have trouble telling what's real and what's a dream.
I am the lightness, the teasing, the time taken for a kiss.
I am the hand-written letter, the knowing someone thought of you in specific.
I am the unexpected little gift.
I am the compliment from 20 years ago that you never forgot, that you believed, and that shaped your path.
I am the warm bath and the cool, gentle settling of the dew.
I am the red cardinal, its reminder to pause and look.
I am the brownie batter you lick from the bowl.
And I am the moments when you think of fear but do not find it.
I'm interested in your reactions to these poems. Not so much whether you like them, as liking isn't the purpose, but rather what thoughts/emotions/images did they evoke for you? If you'd like to leave a comment, I'd eagerly read it!