The Insides of An Onion

Behind closed doors I write

and think to never show these words

to other eyes.

They are for me alone,

but secretly I long for immortality.

I dream that one day,

when I am but a memory,

some kindred soul will read my poems,

packed away in some old attic trunk

with pictures yellowing in an album, 

and understand the person buried deep within...

smiling always on demand,

but hiding other selves

like the insides of an onion.

© Peg Latham,  2016

One half onion
Photo by Ranveig (talk 1 contribs)
from Wikimedia Commons

Sit Quietly and Take It In

When you sit quietly and allow yourself to hear your heart

Then your soul can come forth to comfort you.

When you sit quietly and listen to the wind and feel the flowers

Then your soul takes on the contentment it begs for.

When you sit quietly and view the vastness of the mountains

Then your soul can feel the presence of the Divine Creator

When you sit quietly and view the tiny creatures of the earth

Then your soul can feel deep into the soil of life

When you sit quietly and feel the flow of the wings above

Then your soul can step out and fly with a joy

When you sit quietly and feel the mist of the waves

Then your soul can be washed clean with a pureness

When you sit quietly and watch a deer slide gracefully in your path

Then your soul can feel the gentle love of your Higher Power

When you sit quietly and feel the earth under your feet

Then your soul can plant itself solid in your temple

And you can write and write and write

To seek the contentment of your soul

And you can write and write and write

To find the answers that rumble inside to come out

And you can write and write and write

To know the joy of exploring what surrounds you

And you can write and write and write

To feel yourself on a healing path

That brings you to write and write and write

To know you are right with the world

And So It Is!

             © Hilda Ward, 2016

Deer
Photo by Tony Russell

Sit Quietly and Take It In

When you sit quietly and allow yourself to hear your heart

Then your soul can come forth to comfort you

When you sit quietly and listen to the wind and feel the flowers

Then your soul takes on the contentment it begs for

When you sit quietly and view the vastness of the mountains

Then your soul can feel the presence of the Divine Creator

When you sit quietly and view the tiny creatures of the earth

Then your soul can feel deep into the soil of life

When you sit quietly and feel the flow of the wings above

Then your soul can step out and fly with a joy

When you sit quietly and feel the mist of the waves

Then your soul can be washed clean with a pureness

When you sit quietly and watch a deer slide gracefully in your path

Then  your soul can feel the gentle love of your Higher Power

When you sit quietly and feel the earth under your feet

Then your soul can plant itself solid in your temple

And you can write and write and write

To seek the contentment of your soul

And you can write and write and write

To find the answers that rumble inside to come out

And you can write and write and write

To know the joy of exploring what surrounds you

And you can write and write and write

To feel yourself on a healing path

That brings you to write and write and write

To know you are right with the world

And So It Is

© Hilda Ward, 2015

Photo by Tony Russell

On My Way to My Muse

On my way to my Muse

I must clean off the kitchen table

And put the dishes in the dishwasher

And load clothes in the washing machine.

On my way to my Muse

I must get my favorite pen

And find a special journal

And finish writing out the bills

And pick up my messages

So I can have silence.

On my way to my Muse

I must get rid of all my doubts

And my share of not being good enough

And not being organized

And not being ready for success.

And so on my way to my Muse

I must call for a session to remove my doubts

And get a massage to relieve my tensions

So I know that I am the best I can be.

Then I reach out again to my Muse

And I find my hands aren’t quite clean enough

And my space isn’t clear

And I haven’t finished my chores,

And so I write her a letter

And ask her to forgive me

And to come again when I am ready.

© Hilda Ward, 2014

The Muse of Poetry by Konsantin Makovsky
from Wikimedia Commons

Give Me Something to Write

Give me something to write.

Inside me I hold a book,

Filled with page, after page, after never-ending page of hungry space.

My pages long for tales of the countless hours we’ve spent running through the night,

Of the oceans of color we’ve consumed painting the world with our souls.

There are words

That dripped from your lip like dew drops on a desert flower.

My pages thirst for them,

Were made for them,

Want  them to come home.

Send them home.

Your very walk inspires metaphors,

Metaphors with the power to make rational thought question its own existence.

Send your words and your metaphors home.

My pages will cradle them – like the moonlight,

Show them the freedom they were born to possess.

Run with me.

Let’s find our way out of this strange skin we wear,

So that we can unhide our holy.

Release the ember inside us that wants to burn like a bonfire unbridled.

This holy bonfire that burns truer than anything else that has ever burned,

This, too, would I write on my pages,

If you would let me.

My pages want only to remember:

Stories of us;

And of how we got here;

Stories of how we bent ruthlessly the rigid lines of this world’s senseless sheet music.

On those nights we ran, the paint still wet under our fingernails,

We pursued an irony we had only heard existed,

Tried to outrun a past we were destined to miss like a lost limb,

Our steps, accidental brush strokes on an ever-shifting canvas.

My pages want to remember the days,

The days when we knew what we wanted

Yet didn’t know what we knew.

We recognized beauty in all its forms.

And simplicity came naturally.

They were yours, and mine, and ours.

Send them home.

Inside me I hold a book.

So give me something to write.

© Axel Cooper, 2012

Artist Painting at Central Park
Photo by SpyON from Wikimedia Commons