Category: Poetry and Art
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Remembering Breath: and how much I needed a quiet morning
after days of fuss and stir, after being breathed on and pushed along by ant-hill crowds, in a flurry of hurry move shove bruise— to land. here. washed in birdsong. this sweet, small back and forth. held by the tiny, daily rebirth that is morning. What’s “Remembering Breath” all about? A daily devotion. A reverence…
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Remembering Breath—and tiny bringers of wonder
You and I and soft wet air—skin of our skin— and a thousand tiny here and gone lights rise pale and yellow, blur constellations, separate stars from mythologies, repaint the night with mystery and leave wonder in their phosphorescent wake. What’s “Remembering Breath” all about? A daily devotion. A reverence of words remembering elemental kindness.…
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Remembering Breath and trusting fire on the Summer Solstice
The quietest exultation slow spins the wave of me— dip undulate pull rise (long, slow breath) I have space enough to… to… … Trust, fire says. Trust what you have planted. What’s “Remembering Breath” all about? A daily devotion. A reverence of words remembering elemental kindness. I’ll be publishing these “reverences of words” here every…
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Remembering Breath {poetry}
You lean in your vase so quietly, moments away from dropping pale pink petals on this scarred cherrywood desk. What will I do if you are not here exhaling Peony? How will I breathe?
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{poem} in which I outwit my muse
(1st thought) The last one wrung me like an old washer. Left me flapping thin and ragged on the line. Transparent. Insubstantial. Unraveling. So I’m afraid, dear blank page, that the good ones have all been written. You’ll get no more wordscapes from me. (2nd thought) Unless… That wind-swooped strand over there. If I can…
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{poem} in which a woodpecker saves me
Into the aftermath of blaring car accident near misses, thrum of impatience covered with sheepishly-offered smiles of good people pushed into temporary belligerence drops the tiniest sound full of curiosity and glee because late season goodness was found tucked into tiny gray-brown caverns in gnarled tree bark. she-tree slumbers on, roots holding fast aware she’s…
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{poem} in which my muse outwits me
it’s not always exact, this making of poems, word pictures written rhythms soundimagescapes in black and white. sometimes they just don’t gel. © 2021 Tracie Nichols
Tracie Nichols 