Anna Willman

Subtitle

Poetry: Just for fun

 

A WRITER'S POME

  

A poem, just so I can say

That, yes, I really wrote today.

 

I played some games and answered mail

And then I finally told my tale.

 

I do admit that this is brief.

But writers’ block can shout “Relief!”

 

“Today I wrote a poem,”  I’ll say…

If someone asks about my day.

 

INSTEAD OF FISH

Instead of fish, give me another image. 

I’m made queasy by the glimmering colors

of this whirling aquatic circus

shimmering in the belly behind my eyes.

                  

Sunlight and shadows expand in ever widening circles

triggered by a blurping mouth surfacing

and disappearing again into the depths –

thoughts skipping to the pounding surf-ace of my mind

and sliding back to the deep again before I can catch them

and make them mine.

 

Or give me a rod and reel,

so I can pull the heavy monstrous imaginings

from the restless depths of the river,

and clean them and prepare them for later digestion.

 

A sadness here, so very tired of the struggle,

of flounder-ing to honestly gauge my own part in this negative energy. 

How did I let my own disappointment become censure?

 

And now new struggles surface. 

Can I wrestle them to shore

without mangling others and myself in the process? 

So much love and passion turned sideways,

commitments strained,

creativity leashed

by discouraging words and deeds.

 

I want a quiet center. 

I want unrippled waters,

currents smooth and glassy. 

I want rest and peace undisturbed by hope. 

 

Just let it pass.  Let it pass. 

The world is a better place than this,

if I will only permit it to be. 

Don’t we all long to be good?

 

 

PETALS AND POPCORN

 

In my dream, a crowd of petals covered me – fresh, white, cool, sweet.

 

In my dream, immersed in a snowfall of delicious spring petals,

I turned my head and they shifted in an instant,

Burying me in dry clumps of stale popcorn – crumby, flat, all popped out.

 

In my dream, a cloud of delight became a cluster of boring crumbs.

 

Why not turn back the dream? 

Relish the sweetness, the cool white flowers?

Erase the ugly crowd and embrace the beauty?

 

Yet perhaps there is something here for me too

In the dull flatness of the popped out kernels.

We all must sometime decay and grow dim,

Yellowing with age, flattening with the burdens we carry,

Crumbling into rough bits of what we once were.

 

In my dream I am crowded by both the ethereal

And the mundane –  both parts of my whole.

If I go backwards, do I lose something precious along with the dross?

 

I want to spread out – deepen my roots,

Stretch out my branches, release my petals,

Weep for my crumbs, shower the world with it all –

Petals and popcorn, fresh and stale.

 

Embrace my whole self.

 

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