Tag Archives: poet

Metamorphosis of a Poem

The rough draft of this “poem” was written as a prose response to a fellow poet’s challenge – both of us knowing that a poet cannot go too long without writing some words to which they have an intimate connection. Then… special feelings, although cautious due to circumstance, came into play and the “poem’ was going to express this suppressed covetous desire… However, waiting long enough to actually write these words to this end, they became the true feelings of this poet – the love for words and sharing them with you – the reader, whomever you are. Hope you enjoy them, love them, take them with you.


My heart took its time to let go of the words as I pondered the concept thinking it mostly absurd; for it was you who inflicted upon me the desire, yet my responses were cautious… as I stepped over the fire…

The fear of those feelings mixed with welcome ones, too – but the words didn’t hit me right out of the blue… Oh, I thought about them, and then rethought again – or was it perhaps, they just came to me… then –

as if they were cast off, ignored, and not heard, within the tangled emotions, an expression of words; they got caught in my throat – or so it appeared, because I couldn’t separate them from the feelings I feared.

If I were only a poet engrossed in my work pulling imaginary emotions from the depths where they lurk; I could relate to the words without asking to define, but I am more than a mere writer asking you to be mine.

With such intimate detachment there can be such sadness and if explaining your feelings is the ultimate madness; it goes without saying and often goes without thought that your soul and a part of your heart is now caught between some of the spirit embodied then lost; they still glow in the aftermath paid as small cost –

Despite all this dread, I did write the words… disconnecting my soul, not wondering if heard, for I’ve no way to explain, but to say they are free and to say them out loud, they no longer belong to me…for once they are freed by composition and verse –

they now belong to you

for better or worse.



Filed under On Life, On Writing

Poetic Jealousy

What sees she in him that I do not? Prithee, I accept ’tis not within me to judge others but only that which lies within my reasoned mind and beats within my breast. I breathe the same air and speak of truths but does not my touch encourage flame to flesh? Do I not bleed as he when cut and when in pain without the lust of love to bind and coddle my wounds will they not also merely fester?

There is within and without a great malaise that escapes identification but it is in recalling the events that set me upon my bed that I will call to me the healing. It is my supposition that upon the proclamation I could not live without her that my body was bound to do my bidding. Yet, with all the physical absurdities my mind is alert and, therefore, I am relent to admit as I know it to be scientific truth – I will not die of a broken heart.

It is with depth of question that I seek those answers to our fleeting time together desiring that which I cannot explain. Surely, she saw the value our coupling would have made – me with mind enough to invent a solid future and her with perfect family heritage to carry many a prodigious son.

I told her she is flesh and my natural drive for procreation desired her next to me, naked, and then, inside her, even more naked in the nearness that conceals nothing up close. But he – claimed that a rose was no match for her beauty and its petal would never be as soft or precious as her even in the lasting mist of an early afternoon rain… And she, blossomed with a blush pulling him close and laying upon his lips with her lips the kiss that should be mine.

I placed upon her forehead a cool compress and administered a mix of potent herbs to quell a fever and as I know he could not match that elixir to bring recovery I was confident that she would be well. Yet, he laid a hand across her forehead and cradled her close in comfort espousing a thousand times he would suck the venom from her that dares to invade her beauty as never before there was such a beauty if ever a beauty there were to be… And she giggled, feeling all the better while he tested his promise upon her.

I looked not upon her body with overt desire. Nor, did I parade her beauty before others in order to protect her innocence and to myself I kept the images and the actions of our privacy, albeit, there were few. She demurely received my respect yet blatantly accepted his proposal over mine. He proclaimed loudly of his lust for her and that he alone was privy to the ravages of her body – him and only him – inviting martyr to take up the sword to fight if that was what they dared. He commissioned a romantic artist to caress her naked image in paint upon the canvas claiming he would share only that as if to display his luck and tease jealousy.

The discomfort I feel now grows from a sickness of the heart to a realization within my mind. She does not desire such truths and I am jealous of a man who lies to her to achieve his outcomes. I could write a ream of parchment essays professing my love to her but she would not believe them for his words are exaggerated to the point of absurdity. Who would proclaim a rose is not a rose and that her beauty walks the darkest night as if a glowing ember from the hearth? Whose touch and a thousand words could seal a kiss yet my mind and money cannot? Who caresses her body with rhyme and does not have to fight because he is a lover? Who, I say?

The wretched poet.


Filed under On Dreaming, On Writing

Memorial for Consorcia

It was a wonderful tribute to her life. We all miss her and to each of us a different memory stands out depending upon the period of time she graced our lives. A reason, a season, a lifetime…

I, of course, in my hectic busy life (boo me) did not RSVP that I would actually read something and, I of course, in my hectic busy life (boo me again) didn’t really write it until this morning anyway. But here it is:

Spring 2001 – I was in the throws of reclaiming my creativity after a bout with slight depression when life’s heavy weight upon my shoulders kept me from doing the things I loved. I registered for a writing course via correspondence, started a writing journal, brought out the poet and the writer who were hiding within, and I met Consorcia.

An ad in the Sherwood Park News drew me to a poetry reading she was giving one Saturday afternoon early that summer. Her words inspired me and brought out an emotion that we often laughed of in the years to follow. Her beautiful poetic words not only made me cry, they made me proud to claim to be a poet.

I loved when she shared her work and she would sometimes dedicate the “rhyming stuff” to me as a tribute to my style at the time. Sometime after her illness I sent her this poem…

When a poet writes in silence

and upon reflection words become a task

When no image falls to page

what does a poet say, I ask?

The poet then looks inward

and within the heart can hear it

volumes, verse and word combine

a constant whisper of poetic spirit

Rest in peace, poet, for you are in a place where you will always have moonbeams, mango trees and the one you love by your side.

Consorcia Leonardo Mendoza 1931 – 2009

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Filed under On Life, On Writing

See what I mean?

Well, the reason I wrote the last post is because I was thinking of something in particular when I wrote it and wouldn’t you know it I went off on some other tangent forgetting all about that thought! I laugh at me…ha, ha, ha… Anyway, I was tweeting something to somewhere out in twitter space about my blog and then another about planning an upcoming event for our writers group and I thought “wow, how cool would that be if a certain celebrity poet would attend our Conference on April 24th, 2010 and give a little presentation workshop on poetry.” So I tweeted it out there for you know who to possibly pick up and reply to me directly and say “why, yes, I’d love to…”

See where I’m going with this? Always thinking. Always thinking.

Yes and dreaming 🙂

viggo this way, viggo that way


Filed under On Dreaming, On Life, On Thinking, On Writing