Poem that received a Highly Commended award in the WARM Writing Competition 2010

This poem expressed my emotions following the death of a close friend. As I have said before I do not consider myself a poet, however at the moment, poetry is all I am writing.

Breath

Breath is all that separates,
Me from you,
Now…
So often lately,
I have to remind myself to exhale,
My torso holding my breath in,
Like an unconscious desire,
I have to tell my body to release the air,
Let it escape there.

Cause deep down I know,
It is this simple thing,
These air vapours passing across my tongue,
They are all
That separates me from you.

You lay on the road,
Your life was going,
That day I became breathless,
For no real reason,
But now I know why,
Cause you were leaving,
My body knew.

And now I remind myself,
Breathe, Sue,
Breathe…
Cause sometimes somewhere deep,
I must remember,
It’s the only thing separating me from you.

Poem that received a Highly Commended award in the WARM Writing Competition 2010

This poem expressed my emotions following the death of a close friend. As I have said before I am not a poet, however at the moment, poetry is all I am writing.

Breath

Breath is all that separates,
Me from you,
Now…
So often lately,
I have to remind myself to exhale,
My torso holding my breath in,
Like an unconscious desire,
I have to tell my body to release the air.
Let it escape there.

Cause deep down I know,
It is this simple thing,
These air vapours passing across my tongue,
They are all
That separates me from you.

You lay on the road,
Your life was going,
That day I became breathless,
For no real reason,
But now I know why,
Cause you were leaving,
My body knew.

And now I remind myself,
Breathe, Sue,
Breathe…
Cause sometimes somewhere deep,
I must remember,
It’s all that separates me from you.

Art to do or not to do? (From A Pocket Full of Poesy)

Who really gives a crap about art, anyway?
The artist slaves away,
All day,
In solitude and self annihilation,
For the hope of some acylation,
Which may or may not eventuate,
It may be after they’re dead, too late.
Writing a poem, song or book,
Painting a picture to hang in a nook.

But art is undervalued
And maybe it should be,
It doesn’t provide survival for me,
Except for our souls, it speaks to a deeper part
Of the human heart.
It should be seen as essential
And a link to the spiritual
Instead of relegated and delegated
To a place of marginalization,
Or condescension
Because it cannot be measure by the money you make,
Or the time it can take,
It cannot be measured in a laboratory,
Or simplified in its glory.

It takes its place in life,
Amidst all our strife,
Never to go away,
Heaven forbid the day,
That we ignore the beauty and vulnerability,
Of artistic expressions,
Or let science, progress or materialism bull doze our inner artistic impressions.

Art, to do or not to do?
What would I have if I didn’t have you?
It’s not really a question that a real artist entertains,
For what else would they do with their brains?
They are wired to create,
Something thought provoking, and hopefully, great,
That can cause people to pause or sigh
Or even to cry,
That can call us deeper into the question of why?
That may simply provide a space to reflect,
In parts that we often neglect,
And allow us enjoyment,
Meaning replacing bewilderment,
Love instead of despair,
Hope, and sometimes, someone to care.
An artist, to be or not to be?
It is not a choice I make, it is who I am-me.