A Piece of Poetry For The Soul

Intro

       I think it's beautiful how poetry is around us everyday, in our minds, in our hearts and most definitely nestled in the unspoken corners of our souls. I truly believe that each of has words teaming from every space of ourselves, stories etched into the makings of our individuality. Previously, I attempted to start a weekly compilation of my words and recommendations of others words who inspire me to inform others of my love and admiration for poetry and prose. Now, I am in a stable and incredibly vulnerable time in my life where I feel that words have healed me, empowered me and driven me to a point that this endeavor may do the same for you, the readers. The beautiful thing about poetry is that it finds you when you need it. Poetry can be whatever you want it to be, a page to listen to the complex inner workings of your mind, or simply a hand to hold when you feel alone. 

     The first step to knowing ourselves, I believe, is allowing ourselves to hear our thoughts. Validating your emotions can be a daunting task, but the starting point for validation is recognition. I challenge you this week, to be honest and raw with yourself at least for a little while each day. Visit the parts of your subconscious that you often suppress or silence in an act of disabling your own feelings. If you want, try writing them down—I promise you, you will be taken aback by what a pen to paper can create. The theme for this week's poem is the human experience, the true reality of the life we live. I wrote this poem sitting under a tree, tearing up as the wind kept rustling the pages I was furiously scribbling on. After looking back at it, I realized I had encompassed tragedies and their outcomes to depict a part of me I had never touched on before. I hope you enjoy this and allow yourself to draw connections in your own life. 

Photo courtesy of Jessica Tiede © 2018 

My Poem of the Week For You

Salmon Berry, Snow Cloud

I used to

Pick berries in the woods

On cloudy days,

Holding my grandmothers hand under thorns and green

My mother always trembled

At this idea.

In my tenderness, I couldn't quite see

The poisons

That laced the world around me.

 

A new kind,

Like sobbing

At your neighbor’s funeral

Mostly so

Because her husband was already seeking a new wife

And the naivety silenced the crowd

Before the coffin could

 

An exhaustion

That starts

In your legs

And crawls, seeps, slithers

Into the warmed blankets of your already burdened soul

Your first love knows this kind.  

 

And here,

Sitting in the second row of

Your step-brother’s funeral

Watching the only man who ever embodied the word

Father

Weep unto your all to exposed shoulders

Praying

To a god

You don’t believe in

That your hand in your mother’s hand

Will somehow

Piece back together

This heavy and desperate breaking.

 

And then,

Sympathizing with the bear on the local news

After it has been

Shot

For trespassing in the suburbs

A painful kind of humanity

Plagues a withered

Root of a heart

 

Trying to love a broken cellist

When classical music

Curdles your blood

Leaving the cellist

With black coffee

Because you

Are already too broken

 

Grandmother and I don’t pick berries

Anymore.

I am far too afraid

For that.

 

Writing Location Recommendation

I ask you to find solace and understanding in nature this week. Be alone, in a spot where you feel comfortable and a place that recognizable, preferably a spot that holds memories for you in your life. Try to root yourself in this place and like nature, be honest and pure in the most wholesome way you know how. Tackle heavy thoughts like the ones above—you are never wrong to speak your truths. 

via Pinterest  

If you liked this......

Try Michael Faudet's work, Dirty Pretty Things, he tackles heavy narratives with such a gentle poetic approach. One of my personal faves! 

Via Pinterest 

Until next week!