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Breathe.

Settle yourself.

Try to understand.

We were meant to love.

And if we can not love, then we were meant to try to love.

And failing that we were made to breathe.

And try again.



-Sean Critchfield
This is the product of an exercise. I was instructed to grab the 7th book on my shelf, turn to page 7, and use the 7th line as my first line. The poem was restricted to seven lines.
Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.
The child of the golden light
sitting in the sunshine room
in the dark factories of
madness' tombs,
Your gentle sweet breath
creates a breeze flickering,
as one candle
lights another
in lilac scented jasmine,
Our shadows are cast on the walls.

While in your lap sits a
Clay bowl
with Icarius images etched,
whispering for you to behold,
The cup holds countless opportunities
for inspiration,
Little Tinkerbelles
you hand out freely to those
who lighten up the darkness,
for those lost in the cold
for those lost without a home
for those who swelter in the heat
of their own madness
for far too long,
for those who come alone
who are there to help as best they can.

This rare clay bowl of Tinkerbelles
Who bring magic to the cold nights of our world
the Queen of Hearts
Handed out souls to those
whose souls had been lost
with this light of hope
inspired those who
give at all costs.

The Queen of Hearts
has left the room
down the highway to a distant land
All her bowls of inspiration, courage,
compassion and hope
neatly packed
I watch your U-Haul
sail down 101
I walk back to my dark end
and notice at
my feet
one last clay bowl
of splendor
left behind,
As I pick it up
I know it's a role
I can never live up to or play
in your way.

But one spinning light
a remnant left behind
remained
encouraging me to
try with another
and one more time
perhaps I can pass this gauntlet
on
to another.

Her sweet work
will never be done,
whether here or there
but perhaps if done correctly
with a true heart,
the darkness will be vanished,
everywhere.

Farewell, farewell.
Your sweet breath remains
lights the candles
one by one
Tinkerbelles of magical inspiration
handed out freely
to each and every one
Your enlightened legacy.

For this moment
And in this time
and space
Your bowl
Your inspirations
are
Alive with grace.
For Helene.
Here we are letting the
Winter darkness triggers our mood
While Jack Frost nibble our Noses
~~
The northern wind whispered the same old stories
In my ear,
I saw you in my dream
I heard your echoing laughter
your smile reminds me of a warm summer breeze
When it was you and I and the starry skies
Under the sycamore tree
Now it’s all the sniffy and the sneezes
And the
“God bless you”
I feel your pain
I know what you'd all like to say
      To make me feel better
"Beauty is on the inside"
            Or
       "You are beautiful"
But my soul is so tattered
       And my heart
Has been repeatedly
             shattered
All the scattered
      bits and pieces
   You might find in there
          Between the scars and creases
     Would make you all run and hide
               If beauty shines from the inside,       Then I'm the **ugliest beast alive
The second in my series of 'lies'. Click #mylittlelies and #mytruths to read the rest.
Thanks.
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