Memory is the not-quite-living museum of our lives, and dusty.
You’re not sentenced to remain what you already are.
You may change, grow and split the hardened
carapace of a self that no longer fits,
and like the seven-year locust,
climb high into a tree and
claim your rebirth.
But first comes
mere courage
and risk.
Today’s Word of the Day is Island.
If you want to participate, create a pingback to link your post. Not sure how to do that? See how to create pingbacks here. Please note that for the prompts that I publish, the comment box will now remain open for people who experience trouble with pingbacks. However, I won’t guarantee a quick response to actual comments, that would be left here. If you have questions, or ideas you’d like to submit, please use our “contact” page.
.
Many questions come
Addressed to ourselves:
How has my life been so far?
What have I done wrong?
What can I improve in the future?
So much dirt in my thoughts
Garbage in words and deeds
Pyramid top of a now and here
Time to take stock
Who I was, who I am
How many people have I hurt
Including myself?
In the hamster wheel of equal deeds
Bad habits?
Shame on myself
Every thought, every word, every action
Has a heavyweight
When they hurt
It’s banging against the walls
Of one’s own heart
The scale shows
Where we stand
Honesty and confession may help
To cleanse us from dirt
To become a better person…
Time to bring about the change in us…
DidiArtist, 07.04.2020
I want to live
Where the waves crash upon the shore
To hear those tumultuous waves
Pounding like pistons
Smoothing every jagged rock
With timeless precision
Ever reminding me
Of the silver linings
Found in my afflictions
For with every persistent beating
Comes polished perfection
© 2020 Michelle Cook
Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/photos/the-beach-gravel-the-morning-rock-3266660/
I absorb you
All of you
Drink you in
And the filter
Never changes
© 2019 Michelle Cook
Poetry under the palm trees continue….
doors upon the sea
who am i to tell the roses
not to bloom
how do I stop the hands of time
or silence a lonely wolf
howling at the moon
how can i not think of you
it’s like asking my heart
to remember not to bleed
or a pianist who lost his hands
to forget his keys
my beautiful muse
tell me I can lock these thoughts out
convince me
I can put doors upon the sea
.
.
Am I wrong to love my muse?
Visit the post for more.
Source: good love* – Chris Mc Geown
The Reluctant Poet 