Inspired by Ivor Stevens – he mentioned “words don’t grow on trees” during the book launch of Cadence, and I beg to differ! Thank you for providing the inspiration for this piece!
we think, we write, and we edit our thoughts
words don’t grow on trees, he said
but they do end up on them, i thought
the process is an arduous one
yet so worthy is the endeavor
to transplant something visceral felt
unto pages we can all hold and savor
Grief and Me
I feel grief in waves
Ebbing and flowing, looking
for the tiniest crack.
I construct a dam
Keeps me from the dark deluge.
I clamber away.
Photographs
A time capsule – scroll,
Turn. And you are taken to the past.
Smiling faces gaze
Frozen for posterity
A casket of illusions
Ikigai
Some
people,
altruistic
kind, love to see
you distressed. High on
empathy, it gives them
a chance to play the hero.
Makes them feel good; it distresses
them when you save yourself. It’s hard to
carry on without a sense of purpose.
Writing and Us
You said writing had
swallowed me. Would you, rather,
sorrow engulf me?
Had I cried to you,
you would have found me tiresome
Now I write and smile
And yet you complain
What is it you want from me?
Help me understand.
Grateful for the poetry
I had been comatose. You woke me up.
Only a stab in the heart
could have done it. Thank you!
Poetry oozed from the gash. I rejoiced.
But I cannot forgive you.
The scar – a reminder.
~~~
Smitha Vishwanath’s poetry has been published in several international e-zines. Her debut novel, Coming Home, published in March 2023, has received excellent reviews. She has been selected Author of the Month 2022, 2023, and 2024. Smitha was awarded the Reuel International Prize for poetry in 2023, and her novel was awarded the Certificate of Excellence by the Asian Literary Society in 2024. She was first featured here in 2020.
If you’d like to be featured on The Short of It in the future,
click here for the submission guidelines.
#TheShortofIt – Vol 1 The Sound of Brilliance and Vol 2 Reflections & Revelations on Amazon
Safety Or Anxiety
It’s getting harder
to murder someone
and get away with it
Citizens feel safer
It’s impossible
to keep any secrets
while the tech giants
are watching
The anxiety
of being stalked
is real
The Chapel
She wore a black dress
to his funeral
Outside the chapel
the wind shook the pear blossoms
covering her hair and back
She walked that walk again
wearing a wedding veil of white petals
Pure and eternal
She saw her groom again
still and peaceful
Masterpiece
The land meets the sky
blue on green
The ocean meets the sky
blue on blue
The sun cuts himself
bleeds liquid gold
The palette is ready
for a masterpiece
You Made Me A Better Writer
If we are living the fairytale
I know
I would stop writing
This feeling of lack
this sense of tragedy
keep me digging deeper
into the human condition
For that
you have made me a better writer
Give No Reason
The sun gives no reason to shine
The rain gives no reason to nourish
Children give no reason to laugh
Kitten gives no reason to be cute
We give no reason to love
Being who we are
is enough
Philosophical debate
is such a waste of time
Why don’t we just be
and be happy
that we are
who we are
~~~
China-born Australian writer Jia-Li Yang (aka Cassa Bassa) loves people and writing. She authored a collection of micro stories The Scars We Don’t See; poetry anthologies published by The Short of It, Raw Earth Ink, Prolific Pulse Press, EIF, Literary Revelations. Cassa blogs at https://flickerofthoughts.com. She was first featured in 2022. You can find her previous work HERE.
If you’d like to be featured on The Short of It in the future,
click here for the submission guidelines.
#TheShortofIt – Vol 1 The Sound of Brilliance and Vol 2 Reflections & Revelations on Amazon
the thoughts that make it to the page
recaptured from memories
or inspirations on our life’s path
or feelings needing a voice
may they be the best
and the most genuine
a writer’s nightmare
a speaker’s disability
an old person’s curse
it’s on the tip of the tongue
the mind scrambling to recall
a most important word
lethologica strikes
at the most inopportune times
it happens to us all
reworking a piece
epiphany, must edit now
striving for perfect
what would life look like
to think purposefully
not intrusively
being bombed by 50k thoughts
all of the time
unwelcome thoughts derailing my mind
everyday
unknown
never experienced before
sleeping is the closest i’ll come
and even then
i’m unaware
as to what that peace feels like
maybe this is why i write
hoping the words fall out
instead of staying in my head
the chaos of thoughts
becoming organized on paper
Our wounds can be many and possibly permanent, but our thoughts need to land emotionally to promote healing within; directly spoken to those who hurt us or expressed publicly for ourselves and others to see we can move on. The expression of pain can release us from it.
I guess
That is
The thing
With scars
They remain
In place
Forever
A showcase
Of the body’s
Memoirs
All those links
It cannot sever
Train of Thought by Christine Bolton
Your words live
in my thoughts
Sometimes they delight
and are invited to stay
Other times they wound
and I show them the door
They feed my heart
Nourish my soul
and thoughts
become my words
flowing freely
back to you
When words harm
they linger in my head
slowly poisoning
a bruised spirit
And I cannot
speak to you
Instead I write
my thoughts
that spew forth
like demons
exorcised
from my body
So you might understand
Inspired by Sadje’s What do you see #145
blank pages, blank spaces, and blank canvasses await
beckoning all forms of art
to please
fill the room with magic
make a fierce statement
rouse all our senses with delight
please
express what needs releasing
Let the words fall out…
I came looking for a place to write upon your skin,
But it was far too gentle.
To hold the weight of my words.
I bought a sheet instead.
I went hunting for words in your precious smile,
But it hid pain far too vicious.
For me to even tame.
I bought a dictionary instead.
When I finally came looking for poetry in those lucid eyes,
Even the calm of your hazel dreams.
Jolted wide awake.
I could not buy a poem,
So I became one instead…
Escape from Oblivion by Reena Saxena
unspoken words
floating in steam
on coffee cups
trapped in prisons
eager to break
cages in air
and fly away
captured by keys
oblivion
-a richer space
with all that’s lost
in deep silence
thoughts thank the keys
on man-made boards
for shapes given
in expression
I Write Her 