As the ink dries I see
the definition of who I am
in the poetry.
Though I have written
many a line and verse,
I have not found anything
like poetry that can hurt.
Ars poetica November 2
Category: Women Poets
P.A.D Day One
Ars Poetica Returns
How strange it feels
to pick up the pen,
with the intent to write.
As if I could peel away my skin
and let poetry see the light.
Exposure of the soul
in a way that few would
understand,
leaving my pen sitting limp
suddenly in my once so eager hands.
I feel like it should not stop me
the idea that I might be misunderstood,
instead I will let flower the words
and see if I can find the art within.
Wednesday whisper
If I paint myself
By
Serena Mossgraves
Would you love me
if I paint myself
to resemble the child
you wanted me to be?
plucking away each
of my differences
making sure I was just
the one you planned me to be ?
The paint is peeling,
perfection an illusion,
not reality…
I cannot make myself
fit the dream of who I should be.
If I paint myself to fit the world
I lose the colors I was given at my birth,
And darkness settles in…
smothering my mirth.
Monday Poetry
The Lore of me
By
Patricia Harris
I tried to write
the lore of me,
telling the world the truth
of my forgotten reality.
Perhaps it was written
in script too dark to read…
or maybe I wrote it carelessly
because no one sees me
honestly.
Wednesday whisper
Under my head
By
Serena Mossgraves
the stones are poking
so painful today,
the box is broken
under my head.
I was laid down
and told to rest
in place filled with
glass from my memory
grounded.
perhaps it was supposed to be
soft silt for me to lie,
but due to the chaos of my broken life
shards of stone and hatred
are poking painfully
under my head.
Monday Poetry
Sympathy
By
Patricia Harris
lost in the notes
of overwhelming sympathy,
the pages flooding over me,
I am struck by the reality
of the dreams we leave behind.
Perhaps the story we hide
is to protect both me and you,
from the truth
we rush to headlessly.
Wednesday whisper
Stained Glass burial
By
Serena Mossgraves
bury the urge
in my soul,
to be perfect.
I am broken glass
from a stained glass window
only in the shades of gray.
Crimson drops reveal
the fault lines
that deeply carve into
the soul released across
eternity .
Quick question
the November pad will be 2 poems a day for me and I have been doing well with my Drawtober posts. so I wondered if I should do the posts like that or like the current Monday /Wednesday poetry posts ?
Monday Poetry
Samhain
By
Patricia Harris
Rolling pumpkins
glowing eyes,
decaying leaves,
admist costumery…
candy sacks in tiny hands
haunting the streets
until the nights end.
The veil is thinned
on this night of revelry,
It brings the ancestors
to weave the joy into
all that might be .
Pattimouse 