Wood woman, wise woman

Wood woman, wise woman, tall as the sky
Speak from your secret strength – say, who am I?

You are a woman, strong with women’s strength
A birch strength, flexible throughout your slender length
Deep-rooted in myth, yet still reaching up high
Each tiny twig seeking out the truth of the sky

Wood woman, wise woman, old as the air
Speak from your forest home – who will love and care?

A thousand friends across the world and in your home
You are not the sort of person who need fear being alone
Just trust yourself, love yourself, and don’t fear seeming weak
And in unexpected places you will find the love you seek.

Wood woman, wise woman, sensual as the earth
Speak from your curving thighs – say, will I give birth?

I cannot tell your future, and would not if I could
Only living in the present will let you be what you should
But see, even now you are fertile with creation
There are many things you can give the world without procreation

Wood woman, wise woman, vibrant as the flame
Speak from your heart-sap – tell me my name

Singer, dancer, writer, speaker, follower and leader
Show the world your true self, and learn how it needs her
Mother, daughter, friend and lover, challenger wise and true
All these people, and many more, are written deep in you

Wood woman, wise woman, you elemental one
Stay with me and guide me, until my journey’s done.

I found this amazing photo on www.thatsweird.net and immediately wanted to write something inspired by it. What eventually came out rather surprised me, as it’s not the sort of thing I normally write at all – much more mythical and mystical in tone. And I don’t normally talk to myself, but I feel in this poem I gave myself some good, or at least encouraging, advice.

Little boy’s toy… another friday five poem

Torn page held tight in his dirty hand
The little boy runs, his eyes intent
Panting with eager delight in his plan.
Until at last, strength almost spent

He bounds happily up the toyshop stair.
A bell announces the entrance of the boy
Into paradise’s market! Finally there….
His breath steadies as he waits, alive with joy,

For his turn. He smooths the crinkled image
Out on the counter, scatters his piggy bank’s bliss
Across the glassy counter’s gleaming mirage.
At last he can ask “do you have this?”

At last the box is lifted from the cart
And he clutches it to his racing heart.

It struck me that many of the poems or texts written for poefusion’s latest friday five (little boy, torn page, market, dirt, cart) including the first one I wrote myself, were rather melancholy in tone. I wondered if this was simply because of what the words suggested, and decided to experiment with the idea of writing a happy poem based around these words. I rather liked the resulting sonnet!

Picture uploaded by the Library of Congress onto Flickr