Bitter on the lips
Pulled under like sinking ships
Swept in darkened tides
The ember of love has died.
– Lynn Mari, © 2009.
An experimental poem, alternating syllables of 5,7,5 with couplet rhymes. Haiku inspired.
July 13, 2009
Darkened Tides: An Experimental Poem
March 12, 2009
February 24, 2009
Could It Have Been?
poetry
It should have been
the happiest day of your life–
Instead, silence
Wondering,
Could it have been happier?
Congratulations, a gripping embrace
A Niagara of champagne falls
Cheers all around
Your mouth crumples
A moon eclipsed
By uncertain celebration.
A gentle tug against your shoulder
You turn, (that signature half shrug)
Called to dance with the memories
Of before it all went wrong.
Remembering….
A familiar tune played
By fingers that slid across
The coincedence of bone and flesh
Eliciting laughter
Between breathless exclamations.
It should have been
The happiest day of your life–
Instead, silence
Buffered by newly formed scars
Forming pink valleys
Of dark desperation
And lonely terrain.
A frantic escape
From hollow applause
Tear filled eyes recognize
The invisible that matters.
The scent of seared flesh lingers
Creating trails
Through starry horizons
And the slumbering lands inbetween.
Perhaps, we meet once again…
One heart turning a key,
Another heart opening.
Lynn Mari, © 2009
December 3, 2006
The Journey
Greetings!
When I was a child, there was an old tree stump in my backyard, a marker of the place where the soft green grass of the yard gave way to the thick foliage of the woods. The tree stump bravely faced the final stages of life: yellowing wood caved inwards with rot so profound that the few shavings of bark left were soft as fur. One day, when I was around six years old, I was drawn to sit by the stump. My palms pressed into the damp earth, my fingers curled over the ivory roots protruding from the soil. Above, the sun danced among an awning of verdant leaves, speckling warmth on my shoulders. A voice spoke through the rays of the sun, reverberated from the depths of the rocks beneath the soil, carried on the summer wind: Write, the voice called, Find who you are. Underneath my fingers, I felt the roots of the aged stump grasp my fingers like an old friend. I saw the rays of the sun divide into dazzling colors and layers of light. From the woods, I heard the voice of the forest, squirrels trampling in the brush, branches crackling in the wind. The world suddenly seemed more alive. I found myself gasping to describe all I felt.
Soon after, I began to “write” my first books–drawing pictures because I didn’t know how to write with words, and later that year writing poetry. I was 11 years old when I began writing historical fiction novels. My genre now includes poetry, historical fiction, memoir, short fiction and genealogy. Stands to the Mystery is dedicated to the voice of writing–a mysterious process that uses the writer, much like a conductor, through inspiration, testing and reflection to channel a void of energy into the vibrant expression of words and ideas that ultimately give life to our world.
©2006 Grace of Wynn
