is paved with good intentions
I saw two chairs, a matching set,
a pair, just like we used to be.
They sat alone, apart, offset,
a dark and stark analogy.
They called to me, those empty seats,
that spoke of loss and past defeats,
and even as light left the day,
I found I could not walk away.
At the edge of the world, a glimpse
of heaven. Nestled in the bush,
tuatara tunnel beneath toppled totara,
eagerly awaiting nightfall.
A melodic warble winds through the bush,
ricocheting and rustling leaves.
Overhead, a long white cloud shelters
and protects a hidden treasure.
Captured sunlight ripples through her hair,
adding hues of caramel, honey and gold.
Innocence, accented by dimples.
Twitching with barely contained enthusiasm,
liable to explode in a torrent of chatter.
Intelligent, sweet and creative,
nothing will hold her back.
Promises of midsummer snowballs lie high on heathered hills
while castles and Culloden echo with the roar of clan battle cries.
An aromatic breeze carries a hint of malted whisky from the stills
and a rolling brogue to rumble from the lowlands to the hills.
Highland coos graze peacefully, ‘neath the blades of scattered windmills,
mists swirl in from somber seas to sweep a shroud – the shore’s disguise.
Crows disturb the farmers’ fields while buzzards guard the hills,
and Scotland’s heart beats fiercely to the bagpipe’s droning cries.
Landmarks slide in and out of the fog.
Dancing behind a vaporous veil,
landmarks slide in and out of the fog.
The sea spits mouthfuls of frothy ale,
like an oil painting I once saw,
dancing behind a vaporous veil.
Gulls tumbling above the waves screech and caw
as the wet wind tosses them to and fro
like an oil painting I once saw.
The sodden remnants of autumn’s glow
cling desperately to clammy concrete
as the wet wind tosses them to and fro.
The whistle past my ears, on repeat,
as fat droplets of water bunch and
cling desperately to clammy concrete.
A soft focus scene, dreary and bland,
landmarks slide in and out of the fog
as fat droplets of water bunch and
landmarks slide in and out of the fog.
heaving waves hit the sand
churning thoughts, despairwave upon wave lashes
pain predominant, can’t let gowords less spoken,
tormenting his soulthe one he loves
forever holdsshe is willing
so he may restthe sun rises? and sets?
the future uncertainshadows coalesce the
sea pummels the shorewaves forcing, insanity home
one by one diminishing soOur Lord heard his prayers
come thither I shall heala host of angels
descends take his handpain washed away,
in the calm season gossamer wings
he rises to be with him
What is it about poetry that appeals to you?
Poetry is a release of endorphins, either a welling desire to write out my frustrations, anger, sorrow, or to let the whole world hear the happiness in my heart.
Do you read your own poetry aloud?
Yes, I read them aloud to my cat Sheldon, he is a very receptive cat. He picks up on the flow of the words. If I hit a snafu he looks at me with disdain. I then correct it, read it and read it aloud again. I get kitty kisses for a great job.
Do you have any of your own poems memorized?
I’ve memorized one poem and that is My Love. I often sit in my rocking chair and recite it over and over again.
Do you share your work with people you know in real life?
I share with my husband and sons, they have no clue where I’m coming from. The same goes for my siblings. I believe the only time they will take notice is when I get published.
When you write, do you write for yourself or for your audience?
I write for myself and an audience whom I’ve an abundance of, it seems.
Who do you consider to be your audience?
I consider my audience to be my family on WDC and my cat Sheldon. He critiques my work in his own quirky way. I know he pops up a lot, he is my best friend and confidant.
What style of poetry do you write? Do you have a favorite?
I love to write freestyle because it gives me the opportunity to express myself in different dimensions.
My sister calls home “he’s gone”.
With a choked voice I tell the others.
I run to another room no one sees my tears.
My husband comes to comfort me.
I push him away to grieve alone.
My favorite form of poetry is haiku, alas I’m not great at it.
When it comes to writing poetry, what do you think is the most important aspect?
In poetry, I think the most important aspect is the use of repetition of repeating words, phrases, or lines. For example, Edgar Allen Poe’s poem ‘The Bells’ repeats the word ‘bells.’
Do you read poetry by other authors? Do you have a favourite poet?
Yes, I do read poetry of other authors but my mood depends upon what I will read at that particular moment.
This poem of Dickinson’s (Because I could not stop for Death) grabbed me by the throat on many occasions. I’ve read this piece before many years ago when life seemed useless. My husband is dying. I know in my heart it will be God who comes for him, extending his hand and climbing the stairs to heaven.
My favourite author would be Carl Sandburg. There are so many definitions in describing style. Sandburg uses nature in his stylistic works.
You write poetry, but are also writing a children’s story, a comedy, and a
dramatic script. What challenges do these other formats present for you?
Writing poetry isn’t much of a challenge because it comes from my heart. Writing children’s stories is more of a challenge because you need to find the right age group and genre, and the dramatic script I find there are lots of loops one must jump through to get the right ambience.
You can read more of Grace’s work at her Writing.com portfolio.
Squabbling, squawking fights
over the smallest breadcrumbs.
Office politics.
