In A Poet's Mind

The following are poems I hold close to my vest. I choose to share these poems because they were inspired by people who are largly responsible for my growth as a poet; people who shared their stories, lives, losses, loves. Perhaps you have found a word of inspiration or something you could relate to in one of my poems. To me, that's the purpose of poetry. One mind reaching and touching the same space of another thru words. Yes, close to my vest I hold these poems, like the people I love. Thank you for taking time to read these and other thoughts, in this poet's mind:



Would I Be A Writer?

Would I be a writer
And have my pen divulge my secrets,
slaughtered like a farmer does his cattle;
split down the middle,
soul oozing thru the tips of felt pens
for all to view and misconstrue with their 
perceptions and opinions?

Would I be a writer,
heart seeping thru the
small aperture of an inkwell?
Lay me down that I might wind up
crumpled at the bottom of someone's 
waste-paper basket?

Would I be a writer?
I would not,
but I am.

Yvonne (c) Oct 1997
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Night Writer

 
I write 
in the dark so he cannot 
see my feelings on the page
 
when all of the lights are out
my vulnerabilities are concealed 
and cannot be examined 
 
I tuck 
my thoughts of him away
neatly folded in the corners 
of my mind 
 
there he thrives
lurking behind logic 
and camouflaged as my dreams.
 
yvonne

_________________________________________________________________
Growth
I used to see you

your smile, your kindness, your gentleness, your patience, your sensitivity, your pain, your hang-ups, your strength, your efforts, your struggle, your faults, your opinions, your desires, your g-spots, your idiosyncrasies, your ego, your pride, your needs, your triumphs, your losses, your happiness,
your side,
your way
your life

I used to see you
now
I see me.

Yvonne (c) 1997 _________________________________________________________________
When I Have No Words
When I have no words to give trust me, I'll find another way. When all I can do is stare uninspired at a blank sheet of paper, I'll fold it into a paper airplane, call it love and whisk it off to you. When the pen in my hand refuses to write, I'll use the tips of my fingers to carve out symbols in walls, my tongue to trace words across your back. If I can think of no lyrical sonnets then my heart will beat a rhythmic call to love, generate a quiet, steady hum. When romantic phrases allude this poet's mind love will seep through the pores of my skin It will jump out from behind corners, peek through closed shutters like sunshine on Sunday mornings, splash your face in raindrops. Love will strain its way thru silence sneak up on you in breezes from behind, hug you in the wind. If I have no words to give, you will know that a river of love abides even in the poetry I haven't written. yvonne (c)1998 _________________________________________________________________ i live in a poem wrapped in the context of its reason, shamelessly savoring the sweetness of each word. thru every line i carve a path and fold myself into its meaning yvonne (c)2002 ______________________________________________________________________
In A Poet's Mind
In a poet's mind, I am an unending thought. He tries relentlessly to capture, set me to paper. He holds me in his hands up to the light, turns me this way and that mulls me over and over. He studies me, decides which side of me he will present today. Sometimes, I am slender, with sleek features. A cool picture ofall-that. He formats me with color and an extra fancy font because today, I am his fantasy; The one in the convertible he rides by, looks at, but is afraid to speak to. Sometimes I am overstated, big, round, intimidating, overpowering him. He can hardly breathe when I am in the room, I am so large that I kill him as I move thru the passageways of his soul. It takes everything he's got to move me from his mind to his pen. Salvation rests in his ability to get rid of me, get it all down. There are times when he doesn't study me at all. He just closes his eyes and draws from memory; that lurch in his stomach when I appear, the tears in his eyes when he knows I'm hurting, a slightly crooked grin when he knows i'm flirting, and the spiraling swirling motion of his hand when I bring him to climax. In a poets mind, I am cool, sleek, overwhelming, untameable, delicious, an unending thought. yvonne (c) 1997
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