A Poem A Day 13.

My Life is Not a Poem.

My life is not a poem.

It’s not tidy or concise

There is no rhyme or reason

And some parts aren’t very nice.

My friendships are haphazard. 

My career is on the blink,

and more time than I‘ll admit

Is spent with dishes in the sink.

There is no rhyme or reason

for so much of what occurs,

yet moments happen anyway,

that make me stop, or pause,

and catch my breath in wonder,

like the sunlight after rain,

and the flocks of cockatoos

flying in the afternoon

and the wonder of my children

and the faithfulness of friends

and the way that sharing insights

makes connections of loose ends.

And perhaps the work of poetry

Is just to speak this out;

to remind us of our resonance

with universal things

and help us see the beauty

and the truth in everyday

and the way we are connected

in a feeling, human, way.

It seems that whenever I'm stuck, I resort to rhyme.  I think, perhaps, Judith Wright was correct, when she said "Free verse is harder to pull off than rhyme".  This is an excuse for a poem - today had me coming up dry.  However, the sentiment is one I genuinely agree with.