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Aaron Mullin May 2023
Writing a poem is about locating self.
Every facet within what you’re about to create
blooms from your consciousness, your subconsciousness
your ego, your mind, your heart

But where are those elements planted?
Where are they rooted?

They are rooted within:

your ethnocentric illusions
your lived reality
your privilege, your pleasure, your pain
your abilities, your disabilities
your socioeconomic status: have and/or havenot
your fluency, your empathy, your sense of humour
your vices and your storytelling devices

Now we've got some roots, what are we going to grow?
Let’s begin by observing, using our senses
Maybe, let’s use our eyes
Consider, the reality of how we see and sense the world
Is different for each and every one of us

Everything is tempered by the lens we use
Which is informed through the roots of our synapses
Which empirically flow from the subjective ground
On which we stand

And what does this have to do with poetry?
What you describe in your poem,
Is an interpretation of what you see (and feel)

Interesting poetry comes when
there is exploring to do
It is a poet’s imperative to
Explore the edges
Out past the boundaries of the visual and audible spectrum

If we were fish poet’s
Would we write poetry about water?

I like to toy with my teenagers on occasion
So I asked my son the other day, what his worldview was?
And I have been enjoying the vacuous silence ever since
To be fair, I have been asking myself the same question for many years
And this might have been the inciting incident leading me to storytelling

As we began this journey together, it was stated that
Writing a poem is about locating self.
Can you describe your context?

Let me attempt to describe mine:

Here I am on the stage in this ocean of air
At the Owl Acoustic Lounge
On a Wednesday night in May
Popping air with rhythm, nuance, and a certain je ne ce quoi

Although this poem is not objectively true
Let me attempt to share that
this poem blooms from my developing cosmology
From the overtures of my Overself;
from the undercurrents of the Monomyth,
From my ***** and through my groans of intercession
This poem blooms from oblivion
Threading through philosophy, to worldview, and into a budding cosmology

For myself:
Worldview fell away when I found cosmology while reconnecting with the night sky
That night sky took me places while grounding me concurrently in inner spaces
Where locating self flows into meta-cognitive health,
Well ... that is something to write about
Preparing for Shakaat Artist-in-Residency. Performed at the Owl Acoustic Lounge on May 24, 2023.
Aaron Mullin May 2023
It was a sweetgrass serenade
singing up serotonin
through the cavalcades
and ramparts
that I had been using to
barricade my heart

It was a sweetgrass serenade
and when I let those sweet words slip
off my tongue
just like syncopated honey
into the three-stranded braid
of me and you and Creation
taking us into those outer places
where we can occupy other spaces

It was a sweetgrass serenade
and on our journey to the moon
is where I wonder who
is following us cause
on our way back
I could feel the exodus
of my past,
you know
the part that
no longer serves.

And in its place...

It was a sweetgrass serenade
singing up serotonin
filling up that empty pocket
with a force of positivity.

Looks like We found a lifeway
time to let it shine and
step into deep play
Written in August 2019. Performed at open mic night at the Owl with the Lethbridge Poetry crew on August 29, 2019.
Zywa Jan 2024
You more or less know

what kind of day it will be --


Now you colour it.
Collection "New Ago"
Zywa Oct 2023
From the storm, the flood,

washed ashore in the silence --


of the newborn day.
Collection "Changing Times"
spacewtchhh Aug 2022
My eyes forced open by the white noise of the radio.
It's 7:00. A new day has come.

I get escorted to the line to get a plate.
It's time for my breakfast.
Fill up my stomach without a daily appetite.

I surrender from the visiting room.
His face from the clear glass seems too pretentious
I can't even understand his speech through the telephone.

I try to go out to see the sun and it's scorching.
Play some sports with other striped people
And they get disappointed.
I try to say a prayer I can't finish.

It's just another day to do nothing.
I let myself be incarcerated.
In my head.
My Dear Poet May 2022
When she said “I love you”
the sun no longer shone
It exploded into fragments
across the beautiful blue sky
Can you feel the sweet sun on your skin
Can you see its smile in the sky as it spreads out
Can you see the birds fly as well
Singing beautifully
Can you feel the morning you couldn't wait to wake up in from last night
Can you smell the sweet waft of morning coffee
Can you hear the noise in the city from car engines and welding machines
If you can
Be grateful
You have made it to a new day
Living in the tomorrow you promised yourself yesterday
It's a new day
Let's celebrate
Thank God for the gift of life in these pandemic times
Lyn-Purcell Jan 2021
☀️


I'm always grateful for          
the light of a new day
caressing
my cheek

That's not what gets me most
    but you
                            sheathed by sheets                      
                      while by my side

  See the curtain
    of lashes    

      ╰      ╯        
     ╰  I              S  ╯    
    ╰   R                     E   ╯      


So I can
drink
the coffee
of your eyes


☀️
Hard to believe that I'm on my 990th poem, that's so insane!
Thanks so much for the continuing support, everyone!
Again, just experimenting with something new.
This one's based on a somewhat of a lucid dream I had,
just holding onto some light in this year.
I'm more of a tea person but with I could use some coffee right now lol.
TGIF, seriously.
Stay safe all!
Kind regards,
Lyn ***
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