Well who would have thought I could get writer’s block over an interview, but this is precisely what happened. The solution was to take it one step at time, something I have learned over the years. I first started writing in a journal within a few days of my husband’s death. We had been married thirty-seven years so there was a lot of issues, loose threads and multitudinous responses to fill the empty pages with. Then those innocent lines became more rhythmic and magicked themselves into poetry. Hard to believe that it provided comfort, yet it did.
I’ve been writing poems and recently short stories and haiku ever since. The interesting thing about haiku is how addictive it can become. I had just left a poetry group as no one seemed to like engaging in comments or posting any of their work, which I found frustrating. Like standing on a soapbox with all good intentions of wowing an audience only to find you’re the only one there.
At first I found it difficult to work out how serious the members of TDH group were on their haiku. Now I realise that although it matters, it really doesn’t always matter. That sounds weird but not from myside of the keyboard it doesn’t. I love this group, what is there not to love about it. Even the doubters and shouters are dealt with in light hearted musings. I almost left the group at one stage, but realised for one negative comment there are always too many favourable ones to count on.
As an artist I think that it is only natural to look for small details that others may overlook, the same can be said of how I approach writing haiku. A feather floating on the breeze, lands at my feet as if given as a gift. The light dappled on the ground through a silk screen of leaves to imprint upon the ground. I see things that make me hold my breath, just in case they disappear before I take another. How can I explain what nature and life and poetry mean to me when ink flows in my blood in a never ending supply for the words I need to write.
I touch a rainbow
it’s here where you once placed me
high on your shoulders
a hospice bag
slippers gown socks
sun’s gold spun into silver
ripples on the lake
I have opened doors
with wrong keys that never fit
wish I’d never tried