creativity

GRAVITY

 

Lying in bed

Dark night

Can’t arise

Only me

Nothing but human gravity

Preventing the bed

From flinging across

Time and space

 

Reaching for my notebook

And fine line gel pen

Ink leaking

Shaping words

Across the page

Once again

Trying to rise

Defying gravity

Resisting the flight

Into freedom

Forming the song

Not moving along

Settling on the lines

Of the somewhat sodden paper

 

Words disconnected

From my mind

Snaking across wrinkled pages

Resembling a poem

Seeking its soul mate

Music

And me

Merely

A human anchor…

 

© 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: The Writers College Times

 

 

RIVER RAMBLE

 

So here’s a slew of

Ibis in search of Friday morning breakfast

Ceasing their scouring

As I peel a banana

But more polite than seagulls and squirrels

Receiving no invitation

They good-naturedly poke along the riverside

Eating whatever is hidden in the mud

Thinking of Ibis-headed Thoth

Egyptian god of knowledge, art and magic

I wonder if this foraging flock

Is a communique

My totems for the day

A message that says

Happiness is creativity…

 

© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Foraging Ibis on the Pithlachascotee

 

TWO CREATIVITY POEMS

 

CREATE THE DAY

 

What kind of day greets me

Waking up with the Romani song

Diri Diri So Kerdjan

(How Can This Be)

Clunking through my head

What kind of day will exist

Working out on the elliptical

Randomly shuffled playlist:

When Doves Cry

When Will I Be Loved

Don’t Fear the Reaper

What kind of day will I see

Alone, just the dogs and me

What kind of day?

Anything I want it to be

 

 

CREATE THE POEM

 

Forcing it

Must write

Prompts blight

My mind:

Graphics

Warm shower

Music

Sortilege

Gazing at the sky

Walking in nature

Thinking of events

That make me cry

Why oh why

Have words deserted me

Thought the reservoir

Was endlessly brimming

Can no longer accept

I’m specially skilled

Uncooperative brain

Unfulfilled

 

© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Human Connectome Project (Neuroimaging)

BIRTH

 

Waking up singing

A song that I wrote,

No matter how basic

And unGrammy-like

It may be,

Is almost the

Ultimate high

For me

Eclipsed only by

The birth of my sons

 

C)Couldn’t bear the memories

(G)Just can’t face it, baby, without (Am)you…

(Chorus from SUBTROPICAL, W-I-P)

 

© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: My “peace” tattoo concert ukulele

BLOODY AND BROKEN

river_of_blood_by_x_xeroprodigy_DS-Productions

The vibrations of the stones

Warmed the pocket of Woolf

Beating like a maddening heart

Urging her walk into the Ouse

Silencing her art of words

Words that brought so much pain

To the writer

 

The silent gas seeped out and

Swirled about Plath’s mane

Of thick hair hiding the pain

A life lived under a bell-shaped jar

Sealing inside pleasure-producing words

Yet allowing the invisible oozing of death

To end the writer’s pain

 

Rope of natural hemp, so easy

To wrap around the neck of

A suppressed writer suffering in her native land

Tsvetaeva’s words burned hot with honesty

No one else dared to listen

To one whose pain

Will always remain in her words:

“I know the truth…”

 

Sacrificial blood

Of poems, stories and song

Tidal wave of despair’s flood…

 

© 2015 ViataMaja

 

Image: River of Blood by x. xeroprodigy – DS Productions

A-Muse Me

nine_muses_anime_by_mcat9905-d4o5iz5

A new year

Gather your flowers

Your essential nine

Walk through the garden

And maybe you think:

What shall I write about today?

Love?

If this is so, I need Erato

How can I stimulate her?

How can I convince her?

She needs to be plucked from the garden

To bloom and glow in my vase

As she basks in my admiration

And I am able to create

As her essence and odor permeate

And the brain-fingers coordinate

Necessary for translation onto the page.

Perhaps you think:

Today is a good day for History

Only Clio can help me produce

An extraordinary work of mystery

Flattening yourself on the ground

Gently stroking her stem, her leaves

Before severing her from the moist earth

And setting her into the vase

Next to Erato who is showing signs of

Brown edges and straggly leaves.

And so it goes, nine times

But one of the flowers understands

A magical flower

Who is helpless and will be plucked

And used like the rest of her sisters

But after all

They are goddess flowers

Will live again because

They hold the power over

Those who a-muse themselves

Who are merely the bees stealing nectar

From the Muse who is a vector of

Beauty and Truth

© 2015 ViataMaja, Poezija