I would rather be meandering,
in the world of a single question,
than sitting with the answer,
back on the shore,
drinking from the same cup,
gazing out the kitchen window,
at the fleeting white sails.
© Ali Grimshaw
Author: Ali Grimshaw
The Bridge
Stalled on the bridge, in between here and there.
I look back to all I have built.
What is still standing and what is no longer in service.
Hoping others will use these spaces, be thoughtful about repairs.
That tall one will need a new roof.
Some may be too weathered to save.
Pausing on the bridge, in between here and there.
I look ahead to wide open space.
What could be built and what is needed.
Beauty that can only be created by elements and time.
A center which radiates the harmony of shade trees.
Bare hands joining for strength that I alone do not have.
I remain next to the railing.
water rushing beneath.
No longer who I was.
Not yet who I am becoming.
© Ali Grimshaw
The Field
A crack,
followed by a breaking open.
As the walls fall,
you will no longer be contained,
held separate.
Grieve and they shall crumble,
until the last stone is still.
Leaving you in a field of golden openness.
Wide and light.
No need for protection.
Bare.
In the warm air.
By Ali Grimshaw
Another Year
I could have happened a billion different ways,
but I happened just one way.
One out of an infinite number of stories,
my story unfolded.
Now I pause in the middle of my book.
Understanding, as I didn’t before,
my power in authoring what is left.
Awed by the journey, the near misses, grieved losses,
the fight that has returned within.
Grateful for wanting to be at this party called life.
Many precious minutes
are not gaurenteed.
Savoring this very one.
By Ali Grimshaw
Learning to Dive
One day I finally knew that I could swim
in the blue of the sky.
That I was as strong as I said I was.
That my fears were teachers made just for me.
That there would always be cracks to slip through
and times of trembling.
Then I stood next to the lake,
a mirror of the blue sky,
and dove into its
reflection.
By Ali Grimshaw
Running Story
Rain is on our lips,
down the path we run.
Through puddles,
Not around.
Mud and moss.
Wind whipped hair.
Years of words shared between breaths of air.
Creek waters rolling by.
Tears and questions woven into the miles.
Over roots, up hills.
Between the trees we run.
Thoughts uttered within the flow of movement.
Conversations not possible in stillness.
By Ali Grimshaw
Seeking a Poet
The words came to visit.
Gently whispering.
I was already occupied.
The words came to visit.
I brushed them away.
Afraid of what I might hear.
The words came to visit.
I paused, just brave enough
for a few to be heard.
“Make space for us,” they said.
They arrived unattached
not expecting anything in return
only wanting to be heard.
By Ali Grimshaw
Unlocking My Voice
Will you be there when I arrive?
Will you be able to set the noise aside?
Will you listen behind and underneath my words?
Will you give your whole being to what I am telling you?
Will you notice what I don’t say?
Will you stay during the silences?
Will I unlock my voice this time to say
what I have not yet said to myself?
Holding my breath.
I wait for you to
meet my
eyes.
By Ali Grimshaw
Invisible
There, but not seen,
playing the game of smile and nod
waiting for a turn to speak.
Am I really here?
Maybe they can’t see me.
Maybe I have gone.
Yet the long shadow on the grass
is evidence that I remain.
Remembering my voice
I step away to find another shadow
on the edge of all that is green.
I find another who is choosing listening
even though there is so much to say.
Together we hear each other
whilst standing in silence.
By Ali Grimshaw
tranˈsperənsē
He is me.
And
We are them.
Only our thoughts
Separate us.
Love alive inside each
ls the same.
By Ali Grimshaw
flashlight batteries - Ali Grimshaw 