Eternal conversation
My conversation with him
Was not about whims and fancies
But about the everyday things
Which never fail to bother me.
I could have done better
I always feel
Had I been less lazy
And this, made me full of regret
He explained how I should not be so hard on myself
And remove the burden of expectations
Relax for a while
Maybe, dance in the rain
No one is supposed to do things,
Until one pleases to do them
This cleared my head a bit
I felt lighter and happier
Sometimes God has to
Come down to our level
To take us out of the mess
Which we create for ourselves
But if we are aware and realize
God is nowhere, but inside of us
Warning us at every wrong step
And indicating us, right and wrong in the form of our subconscious minds.
We just fail to recognize.
Hour 12: Half and Half
half and half the motley fool
halfway hot and halfway cool
half and half both black and blue
halfway back and halfway to
sometimes yes and sometimes no
sometimes stop and sometimes go
never never, always ever
half and half to make a one
in night the moon, in day the sun
Hour 12 – Time
I call the time,
The time, which is in my hand,
I call the minutes,
The minutes, which are at the time.
Then I try to stop the time for life span.
In harmony of time,
In spite of everything,
This waterway knows more,
Because it will not intend for it.
It is in search of its path.
Even I could not touch the mirror,
Which reflects me my image,
The mirror was very chill.
Though I fall into a dream,
Find myself in a dark room.
No light, No window, No door,
But still I saw a shadow,
A shadow of false faces,
Mourning and Sobbing,
Asking to go back.
3 AM Pancakes
3 AM Pancakes are best when shared…
Breakfast for dinner is a treat.
My father makes delicious pancakes and crepes this I know.
My new love likes Jack Johnson like my mamma and my brother flow.
I’m feeling so fly as I write.
When the rain falls and we nap we have everything we need.
Thank you for letting me sleep, but please wake me before noon so I don’t cry.
I need the sun as much as I need the rain, and yes, I love you all the same.
All rights reserved copyright(c)2017 Natasha Vanover
A Half Marathon
Subtracting duplicate words, I have a word count of 98 (I think).
A half marathon of poems,
I did not imagine this day.
Sitting focussed and writing,
Not letting myself go astray.
A dozen poems drafted,
Some happy, some silly, some sad,
A starting place for many,
Some really not half bad.
The finish line in sight,
An exhaled breath of relief.
A goal achieved in writing,
Defying the thoughts of defeat.
The words were hard some hours,
Some poems easily did flow.
The dream of writing flowers,
The hope of more poetry grows.
Vulnerable at times,
To let people see.
The creative writing person,
The heart upon my sleeve.
Silence oh inner critic,
You have no place today.
Writing is a talent,
From it I should not stray.
Giggles did occur,
Laughter did ensue.
Victory accomplished,
A half marathon I did do!
Seeking Home in Costa Rica
This forest sounds like crunch of broken open
underfoot, seed pods that stink like rotting meat
when they fall to the ground. In the Guanacaste trees
howler monkeys moan like wounded dogs.
And northwest of La Casona a road so dissected,
so rutted you have to rent a jeep
to drive the fifty miles from the parking lot
through tom bush, pigeon wood and quira
before you reach the beach access. From here
a poisonous trail slithers over an empty creek bed,
Path of the Burnt Man named for the gumbo-limbo tree
whose red bark hangs shredded like dead skin,
the trunk’s musculature and nerve endings raw
and exposed. Everything in this park feels sharp
and unwelcoming, but you’ve come to see
the Green Sea Turtles, the one percent that survive
long enough to return to their birth place
after a ten year ocean sojourn, the giants
who drag their unsupported weight
onto the beach and dig holes in the sand deep enough
to hold a hundred perfectly round white eggs,
then cover them over before they leave.
No mother, no father to lead their young to safety.
Just sun, sand and birds with their sharp beaks
and the waves with their fake promises.
Hour 12- A Hundred Words
what would I do
with a hundred words?
write you a letter?
a song in praise of you?
the beginning
of an epic?
an essay on beauty
pegged
to your gold standard?
if worth
were to be weighed
by quantity
and adherence to rules
surely this
would win a prize
fifty words
I have already reached
and so far
said nothing more
than when
I started this poem
and repetitions
do not count either
now I am sure
your are as befuddled
as I am
but if I were
to paraphrase all this
it would all
be said with my eyes
The End
I wonder if there’s a point where the flow of creativity stops.
Does the muse just decide she’s done singing,
And the essence of creation halts its stream for good?
Will there be no more nuance or spiritualism in word?
An eternal absence of song, music, dance?
I think that would be a very quiet world.
One of boredom, apathy and sorrow.
What would raise the hopes of the fallen?
Push away the dreaded darkness?
I pray that day never comes,
Because for all the days i yell curses at that fickle muse,
The world would be cold without her.
Hour 12
Halfway through!! Hope I can stay awake enough tonight to keep it up.
Starry Sky
The sky shines down
Full of stars just wanting
To be the center of the universe
Flickering in the sky like fairy lights
Stars begging me to travel far away
Landing among them to watch others
Staring at the night sky waiting
For their time to join the center of the universe
The stars send me home
So that I can continue watching them
Shine in the sky calling someone else up
So that they can watch us
The stars shining bright for us
Wanting to be the brightest thing to us