Creative Writing Poetry

Withdrawn, drawn up

If I were in the sylvan glade, I would be stretched out on the grass

Engulfing me with its green sweetness, the warm earth pulsing at my back.

Iridescent clouds melt across a periwinkle sky,

Shimmering pools lap against black sands, bubbling from essence that falls from eternal heights.

I would reach out my arms and feel the tender tendrils and blossoms kiss me with joy –

I’d kiss them back and then I’d raise myself up off the ground

And go where my eyes take me always, up above the molten clouds.

Higher I tumble, and up I glide, the green land beneath me growing,

Stretching as far as every horizon – a golden circlet for the earth, wide.

I rise like a dove on the sweet orange winds until I reach the place that’s beckoned to me all this time, unknowing.

Glassy crystal waves and shines so that I can scarcely see through – I place my palm against it and nearly feel pierced through

With its icy burn and sweet sting.

Beyond, golden creatures flow in and through and all throughout, their faces of prism scarce peer out.

If they do, it splits my heart into a thousand minnows

Swimming in the warm shallows of the sea.

Then one celeste rests a gaze on me and does not take it off

My mind cannot utter a sound and my heart is reduced to ash ~

I am grasped by heaven’s hands and

Searingly, blindingly, euphorically, helplessly,

I am pulled up in a flash.

Poetry Thoughts and Entries


I found a beetle in the boat, laying flat on his back, wiggling his meaty, spindly legs in the air, trying to grasp something – anything – to right his shiny, swollen body.

Slowly, he stopped straining and scrambling on the carpeted floor of the docked pontoon and just lay there, little feet in the air.

He reminded me of myself when I try Pilates.


I thought, sympathetically.

NYC Poetry

May ivy

This time of year, the ivy on red brick walls glows Kelly green,

The same shade of the summer tops aunts wear to church under cardigans.

I could never pull off a green like that, but the ivy wears it well.

Poetry Stories

The redemption of Ungit

Blood flows over me, filling and spilling over the pits and lumps in my face.

Appeased, I relish the offering – life gives itself to me, and I drink thirstily;

This is beauty to me – I cannot have enough of it –

Red and coagulating, it clings to and covers the ugliness of myself.

I have never wept for any creature that is sacrificed on me –

Perhaps because each one feared me and my unending lust for the price of innocence.

Yet, you came untrembling, gentle, and lay your life over me.

I could not move in that moment, and was as a stone – fear me, fear me!

I am afraid; fear me!

Water runs down my face – it is your tears, and mine – why do I cry?

No sooner than when that life washed over me was I no longer a ball of blackened blood –

My visage has returned to one grey and undulating, like any of earth’s stones, and I am purified.

I don’t sit in a temple filled with cloying blackness or the smell of perfumed death –

Instead, I am in a forest, and it is morning;

Dew kisses my face, the birds are singing, and light shines through the new leaves.

I am soft for the moss that grows on me, and a bird plays in the places where water pools –

Life has grown on me, and I do not need more.


There is a season

Some may mourn the passing of spring,

But I won’t mind at all –

The verdant, full trees an arbor

After their flowers fall.

But after summer wanes,

When fall winds play with weather vanes,

And birds turn south leaving north behind,

I’ll mind.


Bird’s eye

I rest on laurels that crown my head

And a key’s strung round my neck.

Any turf round here is fake or dead

And contentment is feigned at best.

I think that, in this time and place

A bird’s eye view would be embraced

As a welcome look beyond this space

Clouded with smoke and mirrors.



I’ll sow a field with seeds

Of grass that doesn’t need cutting, and doesn’t want it, either.

Growing in soft-edged clusters laying sweet and green on the ground,

Letting itself be combed by the snakes and the rain –

Combed into cowlicks where deer may make their beds.


I jumped on a bandwagon

I gave Magnetic Poetry a try since it looked fun from what some others were posting.

Here are some outcomes – I strung words together and left out the ones I didn’t want.

And a bonus one:

Poetry Thoughts and Entries

What is a drawing, other than the end of a line?

Draw me out, with brittle charcoal and whittled pencil

Onto whatever surface you can find.

After all, don’t I look better on paper

Than under those merciless rays that overwhelm the outdoors?

Where the external is viewed in however many angles,

And the reflected light is equal parts piercing and protective?

Here, my veins aren’t visible; you don’t see a single pimple or stray strand

Or even what the outline of my face looks like.

Here, in a line or two, the internal is traced, a strand of genotype that was never expressed.

Right, left, right, left, right, and then left again;

Though a dimension is lacking, it is almost easier to get lost.

Thoughts and Entries

Thoughts in Autumn

I think that the trees are happy in autumn. Their heavy cloaks are cast off, and their lanky, springy arms stretch a little higher than before. Their simple forms are on delightful view – branches pierce the cold air, and brown bark starkly contrasts with the frosted sky of the season. Moreover, they have sweet rest; rest from the hasty making and consuming of food, and instead live contentedly on wealth already stored up. They will soon exist in numb half-consciousness that renders the weighty, cold snow not a burden, but a divine embrace; a heavenly, chilling covering in exchange for a green, earthly one.

Gustav Fjaestad, Hoarfrost and Stars