Often
when I write, it is a stream that comes out of me without knowing exactly why
or for whom I am speaking of, or to…
This one came out like that. My intention was to
write an entirely different piece from a prompt that had nothing to do
with what I wrote here. The first line came out. A gratitude for nothing
specific that became very specific. It rolled out of me as a deep
appreciation for everyone and everything that has crossed or merged with my
path. This is what I love about writing. It writes me on the page and each
time, I am more revealed to myself.
Thank
you for that
For
the song you played out on my page
landing
in my vein
The
one that writes itself sane
I
thank you
for
taking the road all rugged and mud-slid
clearing
it out
straightening
the line
so
I can walk along side
with
my eyes closed
My
eyes
Closed
Seeping
into smoky blue like
a
misted forest stream
breathing
like it's got a pair of lungs
the
size of mountains
I
stand naked
cloaked
in skin
Bones
softening to earth and turning
into
roots that dig in
Dig
right in
Thank
you for that
for
the way you respond
Your
wet lips shining with
what
I evoked in you
How
my lyric struck a lyric in you
and
you carved out words
into
the sand
and
let the ocean write your poem
that
moved like the water itself
breathed
me like
the
air itself swirled
into
a landing inside my chest
Thank
you for that
For
grabbing my hand when I was turning left
Even
though the map said to go right
Thank
you
My
head was in the clouds
and
I thought my freedom meant
that
I had to take flight
until
you showed me
it's
right here on the ground
I
thank you for that
For
the way you lit my incense
and
prayed a breath so deep into me
my
belly filled with waters
growing
seeds thrown by
so
many
Thank
you
You
handed me a mound of fertilizer
and
soft strong hands to pat it down
into
the earth surrounding me
I
grew whole and twisted like vines that reach
and
reach
and
reach as
they
root in spirals on the ground
Thanks
for that
I
only need a little rain
to
keep me growing
No
downpour, flood or tidal wave
Just
a little rain
coming
off the west wind
bringing
waves and ripples of
my
billowy sky
and
wet, jagged hills
smoothed out by my own sorrow healed
smoothed out by my own sorrow healed
Leslie Caplan is a passionate writer and has been published internationally. She is a professional Writing Coach and editor who encourages and evokes the strongest, deepest expression of the writer's voice and heart. She also facilitates writing workshops where writing is used as a tool for revealing and healing. She lives in the small town of Ashland, Oregon and you can connect with her on her website here.
~If you are interested in seeing your poetry appear in this blog, or submitting a poem by a woman that has inspired you, please click here for submission guidelines. I greatly look forward to hearing from you!~
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