One day I finally knew that I could swim
in the blue of the sky.
That I was as strong as I declared myself to be.
That my fears were teachers made just for me.
That there would always be cracks to slip through
times of trembling, shaken awake to fall again.
Then I stood next to the lake,
a mirror of blue sky wholeness,
arms wide with acceptance
I, the problem and solution
dove into a
reflection of release.
© Alicia Grimshaw 2017
Take in Varenna, Italy 2016
Parched again
cup empty
I guzzle gratitude
the only liquid
to quench the thirst
of fear.
© Alicia Grimshaw 2017
Breath from within me
floats out to join yours,
to settle on the brown ground beside
join the atmosphere’s chorus
sing with your exhale.
The tree we sit beneath
is not excluded
from this song.
Lightly soft it hums
new life down upon us.
Static on the radio
world leaders move their pieces,
play the game of war.
Under the tree
we continue to breathe each other.
© Alicia Grimshaw 2017/Rewrite 2019
Beyond imagination.
Outside of your current image.
Your reflection lies in the eyes of others.
The eyes of those that surround
looking back at you.
See yourself there
to know where you are heading.
© Alicia Grimshaw 2017
© Alicia Grimshaw 2017
© Alicia Grimshaw 2017
knocked down
like a tree after a storm
my trunk horizontal
broken limbs at odd angles
body left with jagged holes exposed
pieces scattered near and far down the lane
some parts even seem to have disappeared
now I think I understand how humpty dumpty felt
there isn’t a way to put the pieces back together
it is time to start again
look for fertile soil
plant myself where sunlight will reach me.
Under the tree, sitting
knee to knee while
randomly, snow petals
drift down between us.
‘How can we begin again?
After all, I don’t trust.
I have forgotten how, or…
maybe I never knew.’
While branches above blossom yearly
growth regardless of weather.
‘I guess the question is,
how badly do I
want to blossom?’
© Alicia Grimshaw 2017
“Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.” — Carl Sandburg, from The Atlantic, March 1923.
flashlight batteries - Ali Grimshaw 