Poetry

ON A SPACE CALLED LAND

~ Ali Grimshaw ~ 15 Comments

The voice of a poem can pull your feet from the muck and this one did so for me this morning. Therefore, I am sharing it forward with the hope that it free your feet as well. It comes from  SINGING HEART POEMS, STORIES & MUSINGS BY KAREM BARRATT

ON A SPACE CALLED LAND

And so it happens that we are all walkers:

Runners, joggers, skippers;

Trail blazers, some of us.

Path finders.

And that is the answer of the ages.

Of the “who am I” and “what am I doing here.”

We are machete wielders, creating

The path unique to ourselves,

To our laughter and our tears.

We are charterers of the unknown

Jungles that our lives are, similar

To many, yet different in every sense.

We do not travel the road less travelled:

We create the way.

We build the bridge, draw the maps,

Write the memoirs that the

Next generation will forget or

Misunderstand, because I am not

You, nor you I, and my yellow

Brick road is  blondish, buttery white,

Whilst yours is coppery gold.

And so, like the Spanish poet

Said, dear walker, there is no road.

The road is rendered by your feet when

You start your walk.

And that is life. And who you are.

A walker of dreams on a space called land.

By K. Barratt

Visiting With Chaos – a poem by Ali Grimshaw

~ Ali Grimshaw ~ 13 Comments

 

Spills splattered the walls.

Counters filled with clutter,

multiple piles creating a new geography in the room.

There is a relief to cleaning it all away.

Everything in order. Repair and replace.

The seduction of a new cycle, sparkling clean.

Free from marks of history.

What if we could sit with Chaos

for just a little minute?

Feel the wind in our ears.

Hearing her secrets of cleverness.

To soak in the learning of this undone space.

Before an opportunity is erased.

A past disinfected before she can author her story

from which the plot differs from

perpetual duplicating.

First published on Vita Brevis

Orbiting

~ Ali Grimshaw ~ 13 Comments

Enlight69

she wished to glue

leaves of color back onto the limbs

unprepared for season’s shift

then her dormant suitcase looked up

with eyes of grace, a reminder

of past orbits around the sun.

© Ali Grimshaw 2018

Lull – a poem by Ali Grimshaw

~ Ali Grimshaw ~ 20 Comments

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Leaves play tag in the breeze
as cars chase green lights.
I am the only stillness
in the city this hour.

Living without permission
no need to ask, “Am I allowed?”
The leaves don’t ask to dance
down the cracked sidewalk.

I grant myself this moment
this sunlight soak before
winter darkness.

© Ali Grimshaw 2017

She – a poem by Ali Grimshaw

~ Ali Grimshaw ~ 20 Comments

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She learned to take herself
out of her body, to separate
no longer be encased by flesh.

She learned to go, bundle her spirit
carry it out and away, above the invasion
the uninvited intolerable penetration.

She learned numbness, not to be
within her skin, to pack up her
soul and exit, just until it was over.

She learned how,
survival was her teacher.
It was the only way.

She didn’t know help
with mouth stitched closed
only endurance walked with her.

© Alicia Grimshaw 2018

Fall Will Catch You – a poem by Ali Grimshaw

~ Ali Grimshaw ~ 28 Comments

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Painted leaves sing in unison
Unlike music, their song
is soundless harmony.

This orchestra of color
soothes the tempo
an internal pounding

from a day of instruments
that refused to play
the same song.

Fall catches me
with muted volume
a serenade of equilibrium.

© Alicia Grimshaw 2018

If Poets Ruled The World

~ Ali Grimshaw ~ 28 Comments

 

If you brought poetry to your exhale

how would you breathe?

If you brought poetry to your cooking

how would it taste?

If you brought poetry to your singing

how would it sound?

If we brought poetry to the conversation

what would we hear?

Would we notice the moan of wind outside our arguments

that the water from the pipes is at a trickle, our absent neighbors

don’t stand in the front yard anymore, weeds thrive

overtaking the edible garden, while last year’s birdhouse

remains empty? A muffled fear

like cotton balls in our ears.

 

If I lived poetry

could I see the heart

underneath your skin?

 

© Alicia Grimshaw 2018

“Poetry, whether the writing itself is explicitly political or not, always seeks a better way to respond, to think, to live.” – E. Ce Miller, writer, journalist

Sharing this great quote from Moorezart

 

 

 

Ripe – a poem by Ali Grimshaw

~ Ali Grimshaw ~ 42 Comments

 

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organic prizes tended affectionately

primed by summer’s passionate heat and BB King’s blues

quenching warmth, a gathering of sunlight kisses

red ripe to tango with your tongue and mine

slip into my backyard to delight in this tender flesh

this ready to please moment soon closed for the season.

© Alicia Grimshaw 2018

dVerse Poetry Pub

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