those letters you never send – prompt
write a letter-poem to your favorite poet / writer
perhaps include questions
or metaphors / allusions to their work
Death
Devoid of life: all in his wake.
Evolving us from living things,
Adorning us with angel wings? Or,
Turning the tide from life to death,
Heaving us- brutally, choking our breath?
Help..
I feel like an idiot, but, I can’t figure out how to single space on the posts?..lol..I see no icon for it?
Almost Death
There once was a girl named Angelle
She lived in her own private Hell.
She twisted and turned
And often got burned,
Trapped in her own little cell.
You are… 9am
You are who you are.
You were not designed to compete
to change who you are,
who you were meant to be.
Embrace your identity,
the things that make you unique.
That’s the only way that you will be free.
The Green Canoe- Poem #3 by Ingrid Exner
The Green Canoe by Ingrid Exner- Half Marathon Poem
It greets me at the water’s edge
Where pebbles meet the shore
“Come closer friend,” it beckons me
“And I shall tell you more.”
Of sparkling waters deep and clear
Weathered rock and trees,
Of Natural beauty everywhere
As far as your eye sees.
“Take me to the water” and
“Travel with me, down the bay”
All you need to bring is your paddle
To bring with you this day.
Poem By: Ingrid Exner, April 23, 2014 accompanying photography also by Ingrid Exner, Tobermorey, Summer 2013.
#5, snow
More than sometimes I imagine what it would be like to just disappear
from everything.
Drop it all. Leave everything. A rucksack and a duffle bag and just
walk into the woods.
Look up into the stars as the snow falls soft on the trees.
Blissful silence. Snow-quiet. Cloud of breath into the dark, just the moon
illuminating the water vapor in the air.
Not even the skittering of animals can be heard.
The breathing moving under current of life that runs deep under the brush.
Like blood under our skin.
I’m not, I can’t
I’m not dreaming this sense of allegory
I’m not imagining this sense of melancholy
dark robed figures swing scimitars
in grain filled fields of wheat and oats
death is in the harvest
bloated bodies line the streets
no cart, no crier, no relief
i can’t make up the raging anarchy
I can’t unsee the sight of destiny
if this should be when we bid each other adieu
recollect the times I tried to put my arms around you
forget the times my temper flew
in passions flames I will collect your ashes
but there’s not enough to bury beneath the tree of life
good bye my darlings
and good night
fixing cliches
i.
everything happens for a reason,
except when
it doesn’t
ii.
only the good die young,
do the bad die golden?
they usually die as
poor writers
iii.
tragedies happen to
good people
everyday
poets are not usually
one of those good people
they are usually one of
the tragedies
iv.
depression. (noun)
the hospital in which
poems are born
and given to
the wrong parents
v.
i spent a lot of time
wondering why
nobody taught me
how to swim
if there are
so many other
fish in the sea
__ar.
Oh, Just Trust
Oh, just trust.
Have I failed you yet?
You keep declaring it’s the end of the story,
And yet, I know it isn’t.
No wonder you are disappointed.
You have not gotten to the best part.
Stop truncating majesty.
Stop nailing down mystery.
You will see, once you are wide, wide open,
Why I first began your story at all.