The Dandelion Grows

The ache of being human and a mother.

The Dandelion Grows

Each of us is a Garden.
A soulful plot of planted seeds.
The pomegranate blossoms, ripens, and bears fruit.
It’s offspring.
Dandelions grow too.
Seeds of weeds.
Powerful flowering seedlings upon the wind’s wings,
Landing, rooting and growing,
On another’s soulful plot.
A weed paid forward.

My Garden once overgrown with weeds,
Suffocating Potential from flourishing.
So I pulled weeds.
As a silent gift to those I love
And to those I will never know.
Alas weeds still grow anew.
So I tend more.
Trying to pull the root,
not snap the stem.

In my darkness the wind bellowed.
Before I even knew how to pull weeds.
And also when I did.
So now I too pull weeds in your Garden
Where those seeds I hath planted grow.
A weed paid forward.
My children’s soulful plot of innocence and purity.
My pain and shame now yours.
You come from me.
If only your blossoms.
Alas sorrowfully,
Even your weeds.

---

Dear Circle,

This is the first poem I have written since writing a haiku in grade school. This poem literally woke me up in the middle of the night. It felt much more channeled than written.

As a little girl, I loved reading Shel Silverstein, however, between then and now, poetry has not played a big role in my life. Having said that, I have been thinking a lot about poetry lately. I have been curious and wanting to try my hand at it, even considering taking a course or doing some research to learn about the different types of poems, the structures, and the rules.

I have also been stoked by two poems that hang on my treasure board in my office which were written by my son while in primary school when he was in third grade I believe. They are simple and yet so poetically convey what was in his heart. I have been humbled by his ability to tap into his creativity and inner world in this way at such a young age. Of course I am his mother, so there is that.

Poem One Untitled

Fast like lighting,
I run and hide.
When my mom is calling me for dinner,
I say “Not yet! Not yet!”
When all the dreams fill my head.
When I’m watching all the birds.
And I creep inside,
But I want to stay out.

Lightening Storm

I rumble and roar.
Electric, strong,
And I’m always ready to fight.
With my mighty powers in the moonlight.

---

Very often we believe we need a class, a diploma, a certificate, or the like to legitimize ourselves in a given arena. I too have subscribed to that thinking at different times in my life and in many cases I believe this is the most beneficial road to pursue. I also believe, like in most if not all things, there is more than one way.

At the moment, I am resting in the idea that we must first be a beginner before we are a master. We learn through doing and at times that is enough. More than enough. Doing. Doing. And doing some more. Practicing. Practicing. Practicing. To that end, I am welcoming being a beginner writer both in prose and in poetry.

Perhaps some things are dormant or hibernating within waiting to flow forward regardless of the permission granted from the outside by the course completion certificate or diploma.

April is National Poetry Month here in the States. May I suggest you pour a cup of tea or a glass of wine and revisit a poem you once loved, tinker with writing your own, or discover a new one. A wonderful resource to explore is Poets.org and the Poetry Foundation. I would love to learn of any of your beloved poetry suggestions below in the comments or read one of your original works. Please share below.

Bravely yours,

Whitney

P.S. Thank you to Valeria Strogoteanu for the beautiful cover photography.