Shut Up And Let Me Write

Often times when I sit down to write, the editor inside prevents the free flow of words. She mutters such phrases as "that's cliché" or "not that image again" or the ever popular "and you call yourself a writer?". I've, on occasion, had to write with my left hand. For some reason this activity is hidden from the editor, and I'm able to write uninterrupted.


Shut Up And Let Me Write

Sometimes the writing stops
because too much thinking hinders the flow.
The pen, joined to the soul,
leaks in blood upon the page,
but the editor, employed by the mind,
tries to transpose,
translate,
transform the lines
into something of its own making.

Just shut up and let me write!


© JMariah, 2009

Woodland Cabin

Here’s a poem I wrote about feeling alone and feeling like no one noticed that a part of me was dying. Anyway, I don’t want to give too much of it away. Or maybe I already did. My nickname in high school used to be Jo.

Woodland Cabin

The sun beat down one afternoon upon the cabin roof,
The musty air inside lay thick and still.
A summer breeze blew fragrances of honeysuckle rose
That wafted lazily from off the hill.

The woodland creatures roamed that day around the trees and bush,
The air made light the branches of the trees.
But stillness pained this summer time that brought a chilling touch
And deafening silence, hallowed by the breeze.

A rocking chair stood on the porch, a pipe lay to one side
Upon a tree stump cursed with blackening rot.
Collapsing steps and peeling paint and beams in ill-repair
Had marked this woodland home that time forgot.

And there within the belly of this dark and lonely hut,
Amid the dust from summers gone before,
Engulfed in foul-smelling air, the shriveled mound of flesh
Of Hermit Joe lay rotting on the floor.

The sun beat down that afternoon upon his lonely grave,
O’er which no sorrowing eyes had bowed and cried.
It gently heated up the dust and age-old rotting flesh
That housed and fed the worms that bred inside.


(c) JMariah

Bees, Words and Dead Flies

I didn't have time to post this earlier, but after my very interesting conversation with my friend today (that started at a decent time in the morning and hurled us both so quickly into the afternoon), words came at me. We had ended our conversation with her telling me about the wasps that had attacked her honey bees and how they were out to get her ever since she doused their nest (but that's another story - and it's hers so I won't be telling it). Well, as I sat at my computer again, these words just came at me from nowhere. I closed my eyes and just let my fingers dance in the dark. And this is what they typed:

words tumble
and roll off the page at will.
they shake and drop
to the floor like dead flies.
some attack me around my ankles
and I stamp them out
and I hear them squeal
still
I have no mercy.
They tremble and shake
as they tumble off the page
where my poems used to be,
and all I can do is watch in disbelief,
till they attack -

and then I stomp.

(image by Marina Camargo)

Locked Away For So Long

OK, so this is the third morning that I've gone to bed when I should have been getting up! I've also been away from all my friends (online and off), spending most of my waking hours updating my websites, writing articles and preparing to do a big promotional push of my poetry books. I'm exhausted today. I'm not as young as I used to be. So here it is, Labour Day, and all the little kiddies will be returning to school for their first day tomorrow. I supposed I should get to bed early tonight....yeah right!

My plans for today will get me away from this computer and into a neighbourhood park, where my daughter and I have planned to carry our easels to do some painting. She had to call to wake me up, but I reminded her of our painting date. It's a little overcast here, so I'm really hoping that it doesn't rain. I'm a little behind in my schedule, too, as a friend called to talk to me about a dream she had last night. We both got so excited about the details of it, the symbols in it and what they could possibly mean for her, that a couple of hours passed without our notice. Well, it seems I'm her dream doctor.....lol, yeah we laughed about that too. She's the expert when it comes to numerology and astrology, tarot and runes; I guess I'm the expert when it comes to dreams.

...gotta run...daughter's on her way over and I'm not dressed...