October 8, 2015

National Poetry Day

October 8 is National Poetry Day!

There are just too many poems to share to celebrate this momentous occasion. We could spend hours upon hours reading Keats, Byron, Emerson, Longfellow, Silverstein, and that's the tiniest list of poets I've ever seen! Imagine how long it could take to share all those poems!

Instead, I'll share something that I've written. I may not be as famous as Emily Dickinson or E.E. Cummings, but that's all right, because anyone can be a poet. Anyone who says the words that are written on their heart is a poet. Good thing there are so many forms to choose from, we can be our own poets.

And so without further ado, here is a series of poems I wrote. Happy National Poetry Day!

by Janelle Spiers

They cut the trees with merciless ease
Felling the stories and rings.
With shattering sighs and gasps for breath
They leveled the growing things.

The dryads screamed for mercy
But they were drowned out by the roar
Of the mighty machine with its teeth like knives
Hungrily gnawing for more.

Green leaves fell down like salty tears
And watered the broken ground
As the spirits in the trees
Were crushed without a sound.

They cut the trees with merciless ease
To thin the verdure, green
Such sight and sound I now have heard,
But I wish it hadn’t been.

In a wood they stood
Tall and proud
But now they lay
In aching shroud.

They used to sing
And tell us tales
But now I hear
Only pitiful wails.

Where once was beauty
Now is dying
Like worn out washing
Hung for drying.

Like corpses laid
On a funeral pyre
They wait for the end.
It will end in fire.

All things must come to an end.
All things must come to pass.
Even fallen bodies lying
Cold upon the grass.

Drenched in oil, lit with sparks
But nary a word or tear.
Dancing flame upon the wood
And those who listen, hear:

Crying voices, all in pain
Shrieking from the heat.
Their moaning turns to whispers
As they suffer such defeat.

Death creeps close along the logs
Reveling in his feast
His orange tongue licks achingly
Over the deceased.

Burning snowflakes fall to earth
And land in drifts of dust.
The whispers of voices float around
And speak of fire’s lust.

Gentle ashes touch the ground
And darken up the soil.
A tiny touch on any piece
And the shape will surely spoil.

The memories of root and bark
Are floating through the sky
And when they touch the ground again
Their memory will die.

Burning snowflakes fall to earth
And sing their final song.
They tell of days when life was green,
Before their life was gone.

October 7, 2015

What We Wish We Weren't

A friend of mine recently asked the question, 'What is a body?' and then proceeded to answer it in the most beautiful and poetic way imaginable. It caught my attention and I asked if I could share it with all of you, because it's a message that needs to be shared and contemplated. It rings with truth and purity; that's hard to find nowadays.

"What is a body? A literal reflection of our inner selves? A walking organ that functions based off of the whims of some unseen soul? A prison? We become so consumed with the outer appearance of a shell, of the case that protects the vibrant life that resides inside. We color it and paint it, putting on airs and dressing it up telling the world "this is me! Look at my clothes and my skin and my hair. Look at the way I walk and talk and move. This is me." Lies. This is a disguise. A clever trick of the world that allows us to present to our fellow beings exactly what we wish. But what is the point? Who are you trying to impress? They do not live inside your head, they do not spend everyday trapped within the confines of your mind, listening to the endless torrent of thoughts and emotions never ceasing, never letting you rest. We are forced to face ourselves everyday, and often we do not like what we see, because we see what is real. The true being behind the disguise. But what of the world? It cannot handle what resides behind my eyes. Luckily I need not let them see what hides inside. For I have been given a mannequin that I can dress and change to fit my whims. I can make it say what I like and do what I want while I hide within, playing a game with the outside world, waiting to see who will see the cracks in my disguise. My body has become a prison, I have trapped myself with the ideas of what I should be. But is that the function of a body? Is that it's role in the design of the world? To be a cage? I highly doubt it. Our bodies are what we present to the world, merely because we cannot show them what is inside. Therefore what we portray on our outer shell should be a reflection of the inside. Not of the pain and anger. And not of the joy and peace. But a mixture of both. Only then will we be fair to ourselves and say to the world "this is me. Broken and fragile. Sin filled and prideful. But still beautiful." It's time to turn this prison into a home, to build and fix it because it is our residence, to love it because it is a gift, a dwelling to house who we really are, even if only for a short time. It's time to set the captive free and stop hiding away in fear of what we wish we weren't." ~ Caresse N. Hassoldt

Challenge yourself today, dear Reader, wherever you are and whatever your story may be to discover, What is your body? Is it your prison? Complicated machinery? What are you doing with it? Is it meant to impress, is it meant to hide? How can you set yourself free and live the full life? 

 "It's time to set the captive free and stop hiding away in fear of what we wish we weren't."