I do not wish to cover my walls with too many paintings and pictures
I wish to cover my walls with panels of poetry
I want beautiful words to surround me
Like a sacred spell
Speaking truths and insights
Prayers and pleas
Into my home like a silent Gregorian chant
Poets' words holding a vigil of inspiration
Painting my walls with observations and emotion
Experience and wisdom
Humor and passion
Poetic versions of our human condition
Illustrated in language
Forcing me to pause every time I pass by
And ground in this moment by reading
Someone else's soul imprinted upon my wall
Reminding me of the depth and breath of living
Reminding me to look for the beauty inherit in experience
Reminding me to feel deeply and love fiercely
Reminding me to embrace every moment regardless of its pleasantness
I wish my home be a celebration of
Poets dreamers philosophers and storytellers
My home will be no dead poets society
But a celebration of the living truth of their words
May all who cross my threshold find something that speaks to them
And after sitting within my walls
May they leave feeling just a little more deeply than when they arrived
-gws
Category: On Writing
Storyteller Heart
With awkward ineloquent rhymes
I started breathing life into words I tattooed
Onto untold reams of pressed dead trees
When I was still learning how to tell my story
I held too much inside
I needed a pressure valve
An escape hatch for my muted voice
That had so much to say
But hid from the light of day
To hold space for my soul which felt so keenly
I juggled words in my mind
Like a magician rolls coins across his knuckles
A dance of language
Choreographed to the rhythm of heartbeats
Raw and unrefined
But as necessary as air
I worried about those early musings
Sure they were self-indulgent nonsense
Important to no one but me
But that was the point
The words were important to no one but me
The way they should be
If others understood them
If others were moved by them
Then I was doing something extra that was right
I gave my voice the space to tell my story
Released my experience as art
Defined by my own rules
A baby poet learning how to
Let her storyteller heart fly
-gws
Tell Your Story
Tell your story
Detail your plot twists
Describe how you penned your own ending
How you dreamt your next prolific chapter
You are proof that dragons can be slain
Villains can be outwitted
That the condemned can become the hero
Be the light that illuminates someone else’s
Pages through your inspiration
Show that soul their narrative can be altered
Show that soul their misery can become triumph
Because you have told them it can be done
Because you have shown them it was done
-gws
Write
Write to free the burdened mind
Write to mourn what's left behind
Write to fill the world with love
Write a prayer for a god above
Write to get you through the night
Write to save a stranger's life
Write to make the world make sense
Write without care for consequence
Write regardless of the words
Write so that your voice is heard
Write to free a soul locked tight
Write with rhyme for pure delight
Write of love or foe or friend
Just write and write then write again
-gws
How Poems Are Like Orgasms
Poems begin with desire
Deep and persistent
Feverish and demanding
They demand attention
Needful hungry things
Finicky in how they want to be handled
Not touched by just any words
They must be the RIGHT words
Poems demand intimate connection
Crave it
Require it
They require time to build
A sacred dance between poet and pen
The stimulation of mind and soul
Identification and reflection of the human experience
Poems must touch the most intimate parts of us
Where human and universe converge
Grasping and pulling feelings to the surface
Until the soul explodes in prismatic truths
Leaving the skin erupted in goosebumps
Pupils dilated and breath quickened
The soul's hunger satisfied
Poems demand nothing less
-gws
She is a Poet
She is a poet
An enigmatic storyteller
A word-painter who colors outside the lines
Who sometimes rhymes
Language her artistic medium
Manifesting nouns and verbs
Seeking nuanced shades in adjectives and adverbs
Crafting simile and metaphor
Manipulating personification and hyperbole
Until a shape evolves
This scaffolding for allegory to be called a poem
A golem built from meticulously chosen words
Watercolor emotions
Empathetic evocations
The work imbued with the DNA of her life experience
Powered by hope for her audience to feel at a visceral level
A fraction of the tsunami that lives in her
-gws
‘Twas a Week Before Midterm
Written originally in November 2004 as a self evaluation for a college English class and updated in 2024
'Twas a week before midterm, when all through the house
One student was cramming -
Eek Gods! There's a mouse!!
Relief! Not a mouse
Just my eyes playing tricks
Now, I guess I can put down this giant beef stick
"Why do you hold a beef stick?" you ask
It's fuel for my brain while I'm cramming for class
Drat! I have drifted from the tale to be told
I blame the coffee
I think it's grown mold
Now nestle yourself down for a time
I'll put on fresh coffee and tell you a rhyme
I'll tell you a tale of a student you've got...
No more digression!
Now back to the plot!
So yes, she was cramming
I started to say
So that by her efforts she'd earn her an "A"
An "A"! Yes, I said it
Do not be surprised
This tale was created by one who's quite wise
An "A" is impressive
A well worthy grade
But what had she done that she an "A" made?
A very good question, my pondering friend
But settle yourself and don't jump to the end
Now confidence often eluded her grasp
Writing, however, was her favorite task
Poetry, prose, and free verse pleased her best
Then writing on topics of interest next
The projects that tore at her brain in the night
Were things she found boring or just did not like
But wordsmith, she was, and was up to the challenge
To muster her will and from her head scavenge
The words and ideas, and like clay in her hands
Shape them and mold them to topic and plans
With thesaurus and dictionary at her side
On her word crafting skills, she did hang her pride
So with effort and skill - and talent there, too
She crafted her papers 'til ready to view
With knots in her stomach that came with the trade
She waited for feedback
But mostly her grade
The feedback she loved since it helped or assured
But although it helped it lacked the allure
That a high ranking paper - yes! Better than the last
Served as her marker to push her through class
Neither science nor math held place in her heart
The crafting of language was her favorite art
Like brush strokes on canvas
With her words she could paint
An ominous sky or a barren landscape
The sorrowful wilting of summer's last leaf
Or the rising sun blanching the sand with its heat
An insignificant sliver of silver moonlight
That with its dull beam, still pierces the night
This was her art, her joy, and her passion
She only needed a pen to take action
And so she does cram her mind with the best
That literature's scholars hold close to their breast
Taking examples from word choice and plot
She studies the masters with every thought
She hopes that one day she, too, might be read
In a book by some students, long after she's dead
And now to the end of my tale, I have come
A few more smart lines, and then I am done
An "A" she did earn, and now you see why
This student was good, I will not belie
She was not perfect
Of course not!
No way!
But if she keeps writing
Perhaps so one day
So home with yourself now, it's late and I'm tired
The page, now, will wait 'til I'm next inspired
There is one last wish as I show you out
To Teacher from the student that this is about
Happy grading to you, as red pens take their flight
And to you I do wish a very good write!
-gws
The Art of Language
The art of language is a powerful mechanism allowing us to reach inside another's soul through the common threads of experience and the power of imagination to leave a momentary imprint on the soft fabric heart of other's lives.
-gws
Crafting a Poem
With pen and ink Paper and light And a turn of phrase I start to write Of dreams and hopes Of nightmares and fears With strokes of ink A poem appears Like witch's spell Or bard's pub song From poet's heart My words are drawn To craft clever poems Each word I must weave Into a construction A heart can believe Whether magic or mischief Love story or lie I've just crafted a poem And now bid goodbye -gws
Dear Book Boyfriend
Dear Book Boyfriend, I missed you. I can't wait to spend time with you. Who will you be this time? Are you tall and dark with a brooding manner, Or are you dapper, dashing, daring, and dangerous? Will we play games of will, Or will you lure me with chivalry? I'm ready to match wits with you. Ready to be Incensed, Worshiped, Betrayed, Persuaded, Enthralled, Rescued by you. I am ready to despise, Entreat, Crave, Trust, Betray, Rescue, Surrender to you. Are we friends this time? Lovers? Strangers? Enemies? Will we live a fairy tale, Or a war? Will there be a cliffhanger? Don't tell me how our story will unfold. I'd hate to spoil the journey. I will join you soon, Amongst our wood of dead trees. My kettle is on, and my blanket is ready. I cannot wait to fall in love with you again. -gws