https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/2024-november-pad-chapbook-challenge-day-4
(in case of visual issues the poem reads)
courage is not just
the rushing in recklessly,
occasionally courage is
knowing that I have
lost my nerve
and then stepping
forward anyway.
I will make sure
I am always taking
the forward step,
Even though I don’t know
I will always have the nerve
to back up my move.
Inspiration does not come easily
Especially when trying to write poetry.
Sometimes the art is but a whisper
forgotten to the land of dreams,
others it is not as good as once it seemed.
Every time you pick up your pen
the dance of poetry starts again.
It bleeds into all prose you write
Often stuck in your brain
much like a parasite.
the pen is heavy
when the poetry hurts
all the words cut
like you carve them
into your skin.
Poetry is but simply
emotions given form.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 .
