Dear Diary,
Poetry today. About finding your creative voice.
Because words
are more than words,
but a gateway to expression.
Yet, words are merely one avenue
of thoughts and whimsy
that are within.
They clamber
They clamor
to be released,
Seeking a channel
to unfold
The efflorescence
of the Creative Spirit.
Find the Spark, The Thing, Your Art, that cracks your impressions
and widens them into an alley,
then expands to a Journey
of imagination expression.
Dear Diary,
We grasp for sprinkles of meaning
Within the vast tumultuous Sea of living.
We want to assign logic to our existence and experiences.
But the Sea shifts and swells
Reducing our assured Truths to fragments
Or losing them altogether in the tide.
And new sparkles of insight appear on the sunlit horizon.
But is meaning essential?
To try to understand that which is so immense and overwhelming within our narrow view may not be the point.
Perhaps it is more conducive not to swim mightily for a destination, or worse to drown from the weariness of the distance, or flounder helplessly in the undertow.
Instead, float within the purity of what is; the flow around us.
Embracing the sense of weightlessness, the soft lapping by our ears, the aroma of continual change, the snap of saltwater on the tongue, the dazzle before our eyes as the sun dances on that Sea.
Absorbing the hopes, despairs, inspirations, love, and heartbreak in as a wave and sending it out again to continue its cycle of fluidity.
Learning and evolving from every experience, large and small, sensing instead of deciding what is necessary.
Unencumbered by the need to understand or harness the Sea of our life.
Dear Diary,
Light On Dark
Behind the crafted mask you wear
I know what’s really hiding there.
Within the silken threaded lair
Lies a not so clever snare.
I step inside from light to gray
Knowing I will likely pay.
Fragile flowers I will lay
On the dark and dense decay.
The flowers rest upon the stain
Wilting as they soak the pain.
Their dimmed brightness is not in vain
Dark is lighter where they are lain.
Dear Diary,
I really like waking at O’ Darkthirty on most days. It gives me a chance to breathe the quiet and settle into my day. A new day that could and will bring anything. Some things expected, some surprises. My goal is to make each one count. I meet each predawn with anticipation and a musing cup (or 3) of coffee.
In the stillness of the morning dark,
Void of the call of any lark,
The trees are silent and waiting.
The day ahead could bring anything.
The quiet air surrounds me.
I am enveloped in what could be.
Before the bustle of the coming day,
I breathe the dark before sun’s ray.
I feel your presence all around me.
I see your face, but unclearly
Intermingled with the truth and pain,
Laced in love and joy within the stain.
I embrace it all to live what’s real,
To grow and die and truly feel.
Striving to be unhampered by
Superficial things that bind and tie.
The chasm is
beyond the bounds of normalcy.
It drops off sudden and steep.
It is murky and dark
to the cautiously searching eye.
Those who have gone before are mute to tell
what lies on the other side
of the noise and ceaseless maneuverings
that compiles living.
The abrupt end of known existence
is unfathomable.
Its presence hovers
peripheral to life being lived,
best ignored
until that corner is turned
to find the feet placed
at the cliff
gazing fully at the unrevealed expanse,
unable to return.
Dear Diary,
You already told me
that I can fly.
The breathless beach day sky beckons
but the wings are not ready.
Impatience chafes
as the wings are dressed and redressed again,
fitted and groomed for distance flight,
not for short sprints.
Wings of strength and force
must be honed
to arc and soar instead of to flit and flutter.
You already showed me
that I can fall.
Stranded on the earth
until muscle and feather are reconstructed,
better equipped for future flights.
You will not enlighten me
where I will go or what it will take to get there.
But you have prepared me to fall and to fly,
to embrace the cycle
with fully extended wings.
To leap further than before
without reservation,
into the extraordinary blue.
Dear Diary,
Behind the crafted mask you wear
I know what’s really hiding there.
Within the silken threaded lair
Lies a not so clever snare.
I step inside from light to gray
Knowing I will likely pay.
Fragile flowers I will lay
On the dark and dense decay.
The flowers rest upon the stain
Wilting as they soak the pain.
Their dimmed brightness is not in vain
Dark is lighter where they are lain.
Dear Diary,
The Child is poised
On the edge of an endless field
Crisp, tall grasses sway and wave
Cajoling the vivid wildflowers within.
The shy bright sprigs
Slide against the shifting sea of grasses,
And then coyly bend away
In the ruffling breeze.
The breathless wind skips over the tips,
The whispering is barely audible.
It teases the flora
And it teases the Child,
Tickling a place deep within that has no words or reason.
A child must run
When faced with a wide open field
Or even a long corridor.
The impulse insists
And the Child runs
Happily embracing the burst
Of brief careless freedom.
There is no destination or purpose.
There is only the running.
Dear Diary,
Rustling in the fringes
That Thought
A flash of indiscriminate color,
A glimpse of the quirk of a mocking smile,
Then stillness
Opening out and spreading
Silence seeping in, then saturating.
That Thought
Nowhere to be seen,
Or heard
But I feel it,
Pulsating,
Breathing
Blending with the surrounding scenery.
Time slows
The Thought hides
and I wait, poised and expectant
for Inspiration to leap and strike.
Dear Diary,
I can’t exactly tell
Where the Desert kisses the Sky.
The silence hides their passion well,
But the smoldering shimmer reveals the lie.
Is it where the dunes reach to embrace?
Or where the valley submissively yields?
Perhaps it’s when a sudden wind does race
Over the seemingly barren and brooding fields.
Electricity trembles where they doth touch.
My senses hum the tune they sing.
So thickly quiet, but speaking so much.
My skin is parched and mine eyes they sting
The blue is brilliant against the sand’s pale clutch
The sun it colors me and the sand doth cling.
Dear Diary .... by Kellianne Sweeney 