My Old Friend

I end each day in silence
clearing the path of ripples

from every stone that smashed
my surface, on my way down

sitting in a sacred space.
Finding the way through the

drama and unexperienced emotions
to this place, deep and wide

and dark, pulsing, magnetic.
And there I dwell into

clarity before I sleep.
At daybreak, silent once again,

as if my dreams had opened
long thoughts, to be respectfully

regarded, fading fast but
sometimes lingering or pulling

me into a poem’s magic.
And though I warn the people

that I live with, they can’t help
but think me rude,

eyes glazed at a hint of
chatter, running out into

the morning, into upon
a secluded chair, settling

quietly to the morning serenade
children squealing, birds

on every branch, traffic humming
into the background. And when I

open my eyes, I am regarded
by a lizard, stone pose

until we scamper into the day.

Written for the Stream of Consciousness-Saturday prompt of silent/silence  (must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write.)  The no-planning part is easy, but I love this particular prompt because it highlights for me just how many picky little edits I do to even my spontaneous morning poems.  Not for this prompt, though, scout’s honor.

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Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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