Poem - Rebuked Queen

Hello, dear friends. Yes. I know. I've been silent for far too long. It has become a challenge maintaining a constant flow of creativity. Especially where there are so many creative channels I am involved with. I do apologise. There is light at the end of the tunnel though. This post hereby officially signifies my return to the creative word. I have set myself some challenges and goals for the next few months which should see me producing more words than I have been these last few months... Ok, this year. My return to the word comes with a poem - Rebuked Queen. There are a lot of things happening in this one. Lets have a look at it.

Enough blah blah blah from me. Here is the poem

Rebuked Queen

Spotted by change fluttering by.

Carefree fairy with a wandering eye.

Tear soaked, drenched in darkness.

Her heart broken and directionless.

Sputtering, flickering yet staying lit.

A blazing candle made for her fit.

Disregarded and abused by whim.

Extinguishing breath expelled her bosom.

Fumbling, lost and desperate for hope.

She queries for promise from the entangled rope.

Providence abided by a steady hand.

The brilliance of the ever-orb brought to her land.

Spotted by chance on the floor of night.

Her eyes need open to see the light.

Tell me, what does this one do to you? What do you see, feel, taste? I do wonder what you take away from it. Post a comment, letting me know. This poem has been in my possession for some time, but it didn't see the light of day. Now it's ready for it's waltz in the sun. A friend remarked how the tempo and rhythm reminded her of some Far Easten Poetry. A well spotted observation considering not many pick up this influence in my writing. I have a short something I will be sharing next week. This one came to me in the last few days and needs a little bit more before its ready the light. Yes, I am looking forward to sharing it with you.

Nic. Out.

Poem: Impression

Well friends, seems the poet has had a stronger grip on me than the storyteller. It's been too long since I've been able to put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard in my case) and a story or part there of has been the result. The characters are silent where they would normally tell me their story - no, not the voices in my head. Those are still quite loud. That being said, the poems are coming out more and more frequently. Which is interesting to say the least. So, last week I was surprised by where creativity can come from and the process it sometimes takes. It started when some words spilled out of me during dinner. Words that I quickly captured on to my phone. Then, a day later, I saw a picture frame that sparked a few more words in me. Little did I know that these would turn into a poem that my dear editor has labeled: "My Favourite of All." She liked it so much she insisted I do a reading of it to her once I've figured out it's source and what it really means. And so, for your reading pleasure: Impression.

Enough blah, blah, blah from me. Here is the poem.

Impression

A blank canvas of grey skies

Brushed in strokes that imply

Tones pregnant with lost smiles

On a palette smudged with denial

Framed by a view of ever-present lies

Seen shimmering through raining eyes

Textures fingered, jagged and mine.

A life. Painted. Missing.

What do you think, my dear friends? When he words blank canvas came to me that evening, I didn't know that there was so much imagery behind them. After a struggle with naming the poem, a good friend (yes, you Roxanne) that knows my heart pulled the name from my mind. So you see, the creative process does not occur in a vacuum. Impression came from a conversation about art and was sealed by a perceptive friend. Where does yours come from?

Nic. Out.

Warrior

Hello friends. So, I've been busy with the poetry again. This time I have decided to share a poem that is extremely personal to me. I don't have much to say on this one except that it too was a rush of emotions and is as raw as all the other writing you'll find on this blog. I truly wonder what interpretations you guys will take from this and what it reflects... 

All the same, enough blah blah blah from me. Here is the poem:

Warrior

Standing Amazonian on a dune swept
Bare to the bone. Crumbling as a whelp
Of fire that struck the earth. Scorched.
Singed into a dust that dances cursed,
By a furnace of heart that once sang
A ball of love once drank.
Filled. Bloated. Uncomfortable.
Swishing in the belly. A dribble
of Words silenced by a microphone.
Held to lips, cut by syllables and tones
Of a need that gawks open. Never met.
A warrior. The apocalypse of self.

Goodness! Ok. It's out. I would truly love to hear from you on what you take away from this piece. I already have some feedback from my editor (literally 5 minutes ago) and it's interesting what those that know you see. So comment. Let me know what you think.

Nic. Out.