Poetess, rare in contemporary usage
yet, not rare in actuality.
Am I a poet? Or a poetess?
The word "poetry" derives from the Latin feminine noun poetria, meaning not "poetry" but "poetess.
So, confusion reigns in my mind as to what I am
but not what I do, or why I do it.
Do I write because I want recognition? Fame? Accolades? No.
Do I write because I need to? Yes.
Words soothe my soul, whether they be dark words or
words forged in the light.
Poetry allows the poet and the reader to visualise
nay experience all forms of love, hurt, pain, madness,
and suffering, the poet, the poem and the reader become as one.

Is it by chance that Da Vinci's "La Gioconda"
is named as such?
All propaganda, speculations and theories all based
on a smile.
Etymology of the name Gioconda is such:
"Friendly and communicative, Gioconda has plenty of charm and magnetism. A sociable extrovert, she is pleasant, cheerful and very likeable. She was born to express herself, interact with others and have a good time. In effect, she can sometimes appear rather disconcerting."
"Rather disconcerting", now that's an understatement of the enigmatic
Mona Lisa's smile!
A beguiling smile, what are you thinking whilst sat for the maestro?
Is it an affair of the heart?
Is it a smirk? A smirk of knowing.
Are you even real?
A woman or as some suggest, a beautiful boy, Da Vinci's muse/lover?
Does your beauty mask a hidden triumph, your magnetism over time?
You, have become immortal, looked upon and gazed at, where Gods have not.
Did you know as you sat amongst the smell of paint,
that your fate was sealed not with a kiss but a smile?

My window allows me to look out on a meadow.
Nothing but grass, shrubs, meadow flowers and weeds.
The trees are in my eye line yet,
so far away they stand like soldiers on parade.
So, just a simple window, with a view of nature.

This window though is more than glass
It's a portal to the past.
I know, I've been there, and barely came back.
Souls walk in the meadow, they emerge from the trees
They beckon me to walk with them in the Autumn breeze.

Once, as a child I ran outside to look at all the people
Some wore bonnets, some had swords, others axes
Such was the horde. I remember the scene vividly.
Yet, they were all grey, even in the sun. Then,
they all turned and saw me.

Their eyes were white, opaque, like a drowned person's
Tattered fabric clung to bleached bones
Mouths moved with soundless words
Pleading arms outstretched
To me the little girl that opened the door onto the meadow.

I ran from the meadow screaming, tears streaming
icy fingers creeping toward me, hands grabbing,
over my shoulder I turned and looked, they'd stopped
right at the meadow's boundary, pleading into thin air.
What did they want? I was just a child. I could do nothing for
those souls lost in limbo outside my window.

The smell of bleach stings her nose
And waters her eyes.
Clean and purifying, whitening her darkness,
the bleach is cleansing the beast.
She's lost count of how many scourers
she's used on her skin, just to get the taint of him
off of her.
His actions were well concealed that night,
her pleadings fell on deaf ears, so intent was he.
He made her feel like a piece of meat,
cheap, and at fault
time after time he forced her to kiss him,
to smell his closeness
his alcoholic breath, his sweaty hands, his rough hold.
Finally, a friend appeared, he grabbed her from
the monster, then rage, fists and threats appeared.
She ran as fast as her heels allowed,  
through the maze of crowd, oblivious to the monster
lurking in the corner.
The monster's name was John.
Her saviour's name was Rhys.
Yet, still no peace not even today, just the cleansing smell of bleach.

Poetry, the reason we are all here.
Writing words that we hope someone reads and hears
Hears in the sounds of the words, them coming alive
Vocally there is a potency to written words
Say them out loud, hear them, feel them form in your mouth
Soulfully continue this aged tradition of story telling
Poetry, is known globally, it transcends diplomacy,
it reaches souls, hearts and minds.
Like a minority,poetry is seen as weak and bleak,
but then life is not a bed of roses, there are thorns.
Reproachfully it is scorned, 'poet? Try writing a novel'
Wrongfully seen as the poor man to a novelist, poetry
at its best conveys, more in a few verses than a thousand
pages of a novel. Lonesome is the poet, that sees truth.
There is merit in poetry, the continuation of odes told by
the fireside, Viking, Persian, Celt, all historic bardic civilisations.
Purity in poetry leads down a path least travelled these days
but tales of yore still prevail, and Beowulf still roars.
Canterbury tales still elicit smiles, cries and woe.
Shakespeare, Dante, Poe, Neruda, Thomas, Petrarch all Poets with soul.
So, you tell me, and all of us poets are we the novelists poor relation?
Or, just reclaiming our station in life as the purest storytellers?

Hot summer nights have come around again.
With them my memories of you.
The way you squeeze me close
The smell of your clean sweat and aftershave
The way you look after a hard day at the office
The way you forget to get a haircut
The way you run your hand through your hair
The way you twist your fingers in my curls
The way you taste after a beer
The way you howled in pain at putting our dog to sleep
The way you always know I'm feeling bad
The way you calm me after my rage has taken hold
The way you never argue
The way you dress me, wash me, love me
The way you deal with me, my moods, my MS
The  way you'll stay with me until the end
This I'll know, even when I start to forget