In these last days of August, I take a look back at a summer moment tracing the thread of beauty on a coastal road somewhere in New England… Morning Migration In the quiet tidal marsh, along a coastal road lined in Queen Anne’s Lace,a lone heron dancesstirring the sanctuary I dance too,my legs wobbly, my steps small.Golden light breaks upon my back,and on the heron’s wing. I turn beyond what is knownand see the lavender horizon in a tapestry of muted light.Here I have no fear,for there is no one to see my silent gratitude, full with grace. The tidal marsh waitslike the sanctuary,like the heron,like all of us, for the light.
August 8, 2014 by annablakegodbout I am often asked why I have chosen to write poems instead of novels, short stories and essays in my writer’s life. My answer is not a complicated one: Because I want to. Because it lets me be authentic. Because we need poetry. Besides, supplies are basic and simple…a journal, a blue pen […]
August brings forth the winding down of summer days and nights. Soon Nature’s landscape will begin slow quiet changes often without notice. Before the calendar rolls in September, I give you a poem of quiet summer reflection. A moment in time when evening settles in and memories are held dear….. Midnight slips out of translucent skies, my salty skin […]
It’s time to become acquainted with a new season and embrace a limitless horizon, vast and mysterious. No longer desiring to be held back, a long silence stirs awake. My life map unfolds; a new journey begins… revealing new dreams with the same heart.
Before February gets by us, I want to share this poem about a moment in time filled with an enduring memory. As the snows falls and the wind blusters by, a woman with her warm comforts of tea and a charming music box from Germany fills her afternoon… Each February I remember the fragile note, kept safe in the music box imported from Germany. Unfolding the faded and creased parchment, I read his words in soft murmurs while waiting for the old teapot to whistle. My aging hands are cold and less nimble; but my mind fights the weathering years. Scrawled in pale blue ink, he wrote: “My dearest valentine I beg you, live well and laugh often. Bouquets fade and dry, Godivas digest, ahh…but love…love… think of me and smile.” I gently refold each crease and put away the only thing he left me. Still, I ask myself each year since his passing, were they written out of guilt or obligation? Sipping Earl Grey tea on this bittersweet afternoon, it was easier to believe in love. What is a wintry day in February like for you? Can you identify with the woman in this verse? Your thoughts and comments are most welcome! Thank you for reading this posting of I Stop the Questioning.
Late Afternoon in Early Winter The wood stove fire burns slowly, warmth seeps into ridges of a red fleece blanket that adorns my shivering shoulders. Outside the snow softly falls, swirls of silver and white cover autumn into bare branched silence. North winds howl, white tailed deer scrape snow on their tongues on a late afternoon in early winter. Caught in high country silence, I sit and wonder, will we ever dance together again, one more time embrace the soft rustlings of our mountain love. The late afternoon begins to dim; Night fall trails and gives way to the gray violet of snowy dusk. I listen for your voice to echo down the high country ridge; a gesture of your long awaited return home. Outside the mountain settles into an early winter, the deer and I wait for December snows to end, and the passes to clear, and embrace the pale glimmer of morning.
Fooling with words, I seek out a dream- how to make a life as a poet. Hot coffee, and cold truth, a woman’s notebook encounters the writing circle, on a Thursday in autumn at the bookstore. Later, a walk on the beach, a gift emerges. Naming the winds, I begin writing towards home while I journey on with beauty and […]