Friday Favorite: Helen Keller and Poetry

 

It’s Friday–FINALLY!   🙂  🙂  🙂   Hope your week has been productive, and fast.  Mine was a bit chaotic with both hubby and son home sick for the past few days with colds.  I had a MRI done on a shoulder, and the results were positive–no surgery will be needed.  Just more physical therapy, but that I can handle.  🙂

Can’t help though but to feel a tad frustrated since I hadn’t done any writing this week.   It’s not that I’m feeling unproductive, but if a day or more pass by and I hadn’t created anything, that’s where the frustration lies.  I feel like an addict in that if I don’t get my fix (in the act of creating), I feel pent up, and agitated.

Sounds familiar?

Anyhoo…

A question popped in my  mind earlier this morning when I began thinking about Helen Keller (one of my favorite inspirational writers): how did she feel about poetry?

Reason this question came to mind is that I’ve been doing some soul-searching as I start to make plans for a memoir (which will be written around a series of poems I wrote throughout various parts of my life).  A realization struck me in how important writing poetry was to my healing (and dealing with losses), and I’ve begun to look at the role of how poetry therapy played in other people’s lives.

I knew Helen Keller had written at least one memoir, and several essays, but I wondered if she ever wrote poetry.  So, I hunted online to find the answer.  Although I did find it, I also found this particular quote by Keller that I’m considering to have framed and placed on my writing desk:

 

Poetry is liberating.   Writing poetry enable me to delve deeper in emotions and experiences that have been too painful to voice orally, and even openly about.

What about you?  Have poetry been instrumental in certain aspect or time of your life?  Do you have a favorite poet or poem?

 

 

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#YouTube Tuesday: Dead Poets Society Series

I enjoy creating videos for various poetry, and have started a new series on my You Tube channel called “Dead Poets Society.”

This is my latest one, “Waking in Winter,” by Sylvia Plath:

 

 


 

If you enjoyed that one here are three more:

 

God Lay Dead in Heaven by Stephen Crane

I Felt A Funeral, In My Brain by Emily Dickinson

Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

 

#Poetry: Desolation

 

Desolation

 

Even tho the sun shines,

I feel no warmth

 

While the moon rises at night,

my eyes are shuttered against its rays

 

My heart’s hard and

the red fluid of my flesh runs cold

 

I long for the quickening

of my essence once more

 

But all I see is darkness

and the way back now forever shut

 

 

WEP Challenge #WEPFF In Too Deep (Poem)

Click on image for original post

For this, I used the image they included in the Challenge’s post for inspiration:

 

Life…

in the simple act of living

    surviving

                         victim

            martyr

patient

breathing is torture

until you can’t

 

 

 

 

 

#Poetry “Life: Just Tears In the Rain”

Click on image to read

 

I’ve compiled many of my poetry that I’ve written over the years (several have been published) in one small book called Life: Just Tears In the Rain.  It’s on Wattpad currently; but in time, I hope to format it as an ebook and perhaps even print.

Here’s the Preface:

I didn’t start writing poetry until 2008. At thirty-seven years old, I felt like I lived separate lives and at this time, I didn’t recognized myself in the mirror.
Who was I? Really, who was that woman staring back at me?
I’d experienced so many different kinds of losses. Some in rapid, short successions.
A cousin, and best friend, died due to complications of Muscular Dystrophy. We weren’t fourteen yet.
The Retinitis Pigmentosa diagnosis at age 21.
The loss of my first husband in a car accident four years later.
In one year (2003), nearly lost my second husband to Pericarditis, had complications during the delivery of our son, and was laid off from work all within a five-month period. A short time later diagnosed with Post-Partum Depression.
A miscarriage in 2008 sent me spiraling downward to a very dark place.
Both the anxiety and depression came in to my life; plus I had a husband who suffered from PTSD due to traumatic military experiences.
I was on emotional overload. Something had to give but with trying to be there, emotionally, for my husband while taking care of our young son, I began to write haiku; and discovered a way to voice my pain and fears I hadn’t been able to do before.
Through writing poetry, healing slowly filled my life with light and joy I hadn’t experienced, not truly, until now.
“Medicines and surgery may cure, but only reading and writing poetry can heal.” – J. Arroyo, author

To read the rest just click on the image above.

#WEPFF December Challenge: With Every End There Is A New Beginning

 

Below is my poem for #WEPFF December Challenge- The End is the Beginning

Enjoy!

 

 

 

The End…

for all things, there is a season

this we’ve been taught

though we rarely dwell on

until it’s standing

dauntingly, devastatingly

before us

 

 

To let go…

the hardest of all to do

of those we love, cherish

for the heart, the flesh,

pain is undeniably real

as the knife

 

 

Look…

to the horizon,

the sky ablaze with vibrant morn colors

and remember, that for every night

there is a dawn,

and a time for new beginning

 

 

All that’s required of us

is not giving up

for the night will end

as any season

and with a new day,

healing and hope

Story Saturday: Santa-Zombie Story

Nearly a year passed since the start of the undead plague

she’s been on her own since

in an empty house, in a not-so-empty neighborhood.

 

 

Christmas Eve

she decorated the dead tree with handmade ornaments

made from cereal boxes;

took the last can of Spam as her treat for the white bearded man

and placed the plate on a table beside the sofa.

 

 

With a bat in hand, and the sounds of death rattling at the front door,

she fell asleep on the dusty furniture

in front of the cold, stoned hearth.

 

 

Rustling sounds awoke her

with a great start,

as she swung the bat through air,

a voice sounded,

a voice so beautiful and warm

it caused her eyes to sprang open;

bewildered, stunned

she stared at the not-so-frightful sight.

 

 

A chubby man dressed in a red suit

stood before her;

she blinked and swinted

thinking she’d died already or just dreaming

but saw that this was no dream

Santa,

he was really real!

 

 

He held out his hand,

“Come, let me take you to a wonderful place.”

 

 

In a blink of an eye, she found herself

on the roof-top

where a sleigh and eight reindeer stood waiting.

 

 

Santa, beside her now, smiled;

a smile she’d thought never would form on her lips again,

she returned with glee.

 


 

Note: This story has been renamed to “The Last Child” and a video portion of this story can be found here.