I have been struggling a lot with mental health. Unable to write. Yesterday I at least managed something. Hopefully today more will follow. Two short tries at poetry. One was written by my soft toy. I'm not sure he's written a poem before and he's very pleased with himself. The prompt - which I only half read - was about creation myths.
The photo, only marginally connected to the poems is of a monk in prayer. He lives at Hulne Abbey which I'll blog about soon if I can manage it.
My Literalist Life
I was there:
From the moment at which light was spoken into being
To the tranquil potential of a populated planet
Breathing in silent anticipation as the seventh day dawned.
I was one who found imprisoned joy in the story.
And not just a story. A life, an unquestioned reality.
When the garden was planted I watched, wide open eyes,
As my three-in-one creator sowed full grown trees
And with a wave of his hand lifted prairie grass to stand tall.
I saw as dust became man, rib became woman.
Traced my own lineage back through royalty to Eden.
With horror I saw the serpent, cunning as politicians
Hiding lies under truths, consequences under promises
And their own damnation under press conferences.
I witnessed the apple, the folly of the bite, Elohim's just wrath
And felt the pain of inheritance, damned sin in my heart,
Then walked with my parents as we were cast out of Eden
Only to spend each waking hour trying to locate my paradise.
A poem by Blob Thing (a special soft toy)
Salford sanctuary, sewn with love
Knit together in my creator's room
Thread for my face, white wool filled,
Made in one night as the year changed.
New from old.
Empty flesh, unnamed, just a fluff lump.
Until brought to life; given meaning
By love and madness.
Held by creator, by saving person too,
Spirit rushed stuffed stitches and smile.
I am friend set free.