Published poems can be fanciful, ethereal, hard-hitting, profound, silly, and – sometimes – reflective of how we perceive “reality” in our lives or the world.
I’m sometimes known as “The Occasional Poet.” That is because – more often – I’m engaged in other activities, like life coaching, spiritual counseling, holistic healing, editing for clients, etc.
Nevertheless, I recently wrote four poems, three of which were published in the 2024 Write by the Rails Anthology.
Write by the Rails is The Prince William Chapter of the Virginia Writers Club (501(c)3 non-profit).
The anthology theme was “A Glint of Light.” Clearly, one piece that I wrote was “dark,” so I did not submit it to the competition. Write by the Rails did publish the other three of these short works. Let’s look now.
Published Poem ~ A Glimmer of Light
(c) 2024 @ Nancy Wyatt All Rights Reserved
Most people have to strain to see in darkness –
To identify shapes, to name them,
and determine whether they are animate or inanimate –
friend or foe –
To be feared or savored.
But for a person who has been blind from birth,
The miracle of newly granted sight, at first,
Brings a glimmer of light as they
Strain to see colors and whiteness,
To identify shapes, to name them
and determine whether they are animate or inanimate –
friend or foe –
To be feared or savored.
For Anyone,
That glimmer of light
May shine at its brightest
When the Mother’s face first comes into full view.
Published Poem ~ Windows to the Soul
(c) 2024 @ Nancy Wyatt All Rights Reserved
The waiting room is full of flannels, gray beards, gray hair,
crutches, canes, hearing aids, glasses, and some wheelchairs.
There even is an eyepatch or two.
All the people are hunched over, distracting themselves from fear
by staring at their cell phones, or simply straight ahead in defeat.
Some talk to themselves.
Others, lucky enough to have companions,
barely grunt in response to questions or comments.
If “The eyes are the window to the soul,”
(how) is it different when they cannot see?
When vitreous floaters or cataracts override clarity?
When physical pain or too many meds distract from an appreciation of sights, sounds, and smells?
When permanent darkness falls –
or images splay like a Picasso painting –
With a mouth where the ears should be,
or one eye seems to be placed outside the head?
Does the diminishing light dim the radiance of the soul as well?
Or is that only true in
the eyes of the other beholders?
Socially and experientially, one’s life can shrink from panoramic vistas
to single camera, tight focus close-ups on topics limited to pain and loss…
especially while hanging upside down during recuperation from detached retina surgery.
What a magnificent joy to be one who restores someone else’s sight – in full or in part!
Like a neurosurgeon – doing the impossible without being Jesus or any other
avatar in the traditional sense of the word.
And how brave one is to continue living despite being ever-conscious that we are the rose,
and our petals are falling, flailing – failing – as the end draws nearer.
But is it really the end?
Or the beginning of the next chapter on a different plane of existence?
One of many?
It’s rumored we see with our consciousness there, and eyes are not needed.
What then, becomes the Windows to the Soul?
Oh!
We ARE the Soul! Windows are superfluous.
Poetry ~ NIGHTFALL ~
NOT PUBLISHED in the ANTHOLOGY
Nightlife In The Woods
Nightfall Amplifies the Life Force
(c) 2024 @ Nancy Wyatt All Rights Reserved
It’s thrilling!
The sun has escaped
Leaving shrouded landscapes alive and humming
With mysterious sounds
Amidst occasionally cracking branches.
Musty smells of woodsy earth arise,
And chartreuse lights wink and blink
As fireflies flit through trees and brush.
Bats course the air with umbrella-like wings
To gobble a thousand dinner morsels in an hour.
Creatures creep and pounce or run for cover.
All are on high alert for danger and adventure.
Life and death struggles fill every terrain, sea, and sky
While corpulent humans sag in overstuffed chairs
And stare at reruns in a glazed-eye stupor
Until bedtime.
Published Poem ~
Autumn on the Mountainside | A Metaphor
(c) 2024 @ Nancy Wyatt All Rights Reserved
The sun slants elongated shadows across the landscape at 2 p.m., and it’s still Daylight Saving Time!
Crashing through the underbrush, a young deer humps up the mountain slope – then stops abruptly – frozen in place – ears, nose, and tail twitching – scoping out the surroundings to see who, if anyone, noticed.
She decides she’s safe and ambles slowly toward the huge copper beverage tub that I put on the ground and filled to the brim with water for critters to drink.
I recognize her. The white spots are gone now, and her golden-brown hair is replaced with darkened gray fur, enabling her to blend into winter landscapes and stay warm enough to survive the cold and storms.
Momentarily, all is quiet…except for the crunchy clattering of colorful leaves as they whirl downward to collide with their cousins on the ground.
Mourning doves, chickadees, tufted titmice, bluejays, cardinals, and one red-headed woodpecker vie with the squirrels for seeds from the feeders. Their numbers increase daily, and they watch for me from scrawny tree branches – backlit with dawn’s early light – like racers waiting to hear “On your mark, get set, GO!” They flock to the deck as soon as I turn my back to go indoors.
Both birds and squirrels are becoming less afraid of me, as they connect my image with the replenishment of seeds and clean water burbling in plant pot saucers. Sometimes, I try to trick them into thinking I’m a harmless statue, staring catatonically in front of me. Only the light of delight in my eyes should warn them otherwise.
The air – like well-seasoned food – is perfumed with spicy aromas of pine needles and many moldering, yet flamboyant, leaves that cling stubbornly to favored branches.
But,
Fall colors have peaked, and bands of bald limbs wave in the wind.
I don’t wave back.
I’m in denial.
I don’t want to be alone on a mountain in winter for yet another year.
So what? Who cares? Do I really care?
Fall always raises questions.
For a person in the Autumn of Life.
What remains to be harvested?
Are there winter crops to sow?
Must there be Acceptance and Nothing More?
Is it time to give up and give in, or time to start anew in ways unthinkable before now?
Let’s go step by step along with the observations.
Yes, I, too, cast long shadows across the lands I have traversed. I’ve left trails of memories, quotes, and experiences that make people savor or shudder in remembrance. Some were my students, employees, or clients. Others saw me in public spaces where I did not see them. Only later did I learn of my influence.
Yes, I still “crash through the underbrush” of societal norms and traditions – especially as a lifelong advocate for civil rights, animal rights, and “saving the planet.” However, if I had decided to stand still to see if anyone noticed along the way, I literally would not be alive. People HAVE noticed. They HAVE FOUND/STILL FIND my stances admirable or unacceptable. People have wanted to silence me – by whatever means necessary. I did not amble over to the water cooler.
As to the gliding of spent leaves back to earth, I count each as a multitude of work or volunteer experiences, friends and acquaintances, and ideas of how I thought my life would be – versus how it evolved. Like leaves turning to compost in the earth, all those memories lie resident in the subconscious, disintegrating into more amorphous forms of energy, beliefs, perspectives, and personality that formulate who I am and how I now perceive myself or am perceived by others. For better or worse. In sickness and in health.
The birds and critters vying for seeds to nourish life remind me of me. I still am vying for meaningful work and both altruistic and creative expressions that will enable me to thrive in a life where what matters most to me is making a significant contribution to the betterment of other lives. Like birds and animals driven by the need to feed their young, I remain driven by the need to provide people and animals with soul-level nourishment. I see no purpose in it all if I cannot fulfill that function.
As to spice? I’ve still got some, as evidenced by consistent comments made to me about intelligence, wisdom, physical appearance, and being “youthful.”
But, if I had a choice of enhancing my personal spiciness or having a treat, I’d choose the pumpkin spice latte. After all, winter is coming to the mountain, and I may be snowbound.
Notes:
1) The use of AI was verboten!
2) My submissions were created hastily as the deadline was upon me, so I have tweaked a couple of stanzas since publication.
3) Photos were not included in the anthology submissions. I have added them here with credit to the originators.
Writers and Wannabe Writers,
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We can talk about any kind of writing, not just Published Poems!
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Do It the Write Way! Let My Fingers Do Your Talking!
