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I'm doing my best to write consistently. Whether I send out what I've written or not isn't the point, I'm just trying to enjoy and develop the habit.
For me, this often means writing poetry. Poems can be quick to write and have never felt like a chore (which other writing has at times).
For as long as I can remember, I've loved writing poems. Probably because my mom would sit and write them with me as a kid. We enjoyed doing that together.
And while I rarely share them publicly, I decided to send you three of them today. I hope you enjoy them.
Winter Rose
A death of sorts comes to the wild garden,
The harbinger named autumn makes his rounds.
Warmth gives way to dark and misty dawns.
Crisp is everywhere, the air, the leaves, the sounds.
Death comes by the hand of the plant-tender too,
Pruning and shaping now for the seasons ahead.
Turning the beautiful garden into a seeming wasteland.
A wilted rose hangs mid-air on the beams of a spider’s web.
Why must so much die today for life to come tomorrow?
Is it a joke from on high or a lesson from above?
Everything seems to die a death of sorts for life to carry on.
The stem of an olive branch in the mouth of Noah’s dove.
The wilted rose hangs, spinning and glistening, it taunts me,
I will live again, it laughs, my new life will tickle your nose.
So I ponder my own existence and ask the difficult thing:
What must die in me for life to win? The lesson from a winter rose..
Martini Moment
A lone and cold gin martini,
quite dirty with an olive inside,
waits at the end of a bright London bar.
The tenders of the bar hum,
with sugars and citrus and bitters,
shaking liquid courage for all explorers.
I explore the wall of bottles,
relieved to have found an outpost,
the wilderness outside offers no rest.
It’s still resting where it was,
small droplets forming on the coupe,
a drink’s never alone for long in this place.
It’s placed in front of her,
she smiles at the waiter and gazes,
for a moment, right at me, I was staring too.
The martini moment,
so enraptured by a drink,
I forgot all manners and looked the fool.
I turn to forget the tension,
then a drink is set down to my right,
my martini muse wants company, apparently.
My own martini arrives,
gin, of course, and lemon zest,
we haven’t even spoken, and we’re martini lovers.
She speaks with a hush,
the bar is alive with noise, but not ours,
we connect on many topics, our martini moment most.
Cocktail bar connections,
my favorite thing about London,
A bright bar that turns into hours frozen in time.
Time for another drink,
we both love onions and order Gibsons,
two strangers connecting over icey gin and vermouth.
Strange that we hit it off,
It’s effortless, it’s respite from the storm outside,
Not a real storm, just respite from the wilds of London.
Londoners can be tempests,
rushing every direction with violence,
it’s why I love outposts, to be huddled with fellow explorers.
My muse explores me,
asking about my family, friends and faith,
yet our dislike of vodka is what really bonds us.
Not an unequivocal dislike,
just martinis, we’re the gin-only faithful,
and laughter ensues when the bartender overhears us.
Bartending is like love,
everyday brings new stories and laments,
we listen to our new friend as he pours us each a shot.
To new friends, we toast,
the first sip of Montenegro is the best sip,
amaro means bitter, but that doesn’t describe our time.
All time stands still,
when you find new friends and bond,
so I’ll never forget that perfect afternoons’ gin martini moment.
The Garden War
The sun shines on every blade,
Thousands of warriors ready.
Waiting in that elven glade,
In quiet hush, they’re steady.
Shimmering a greenish yellow hue,
They stand tall, shoulders harden.
“Await your enemy!” is the cue,
Then I start to mow my garden.
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