Poetry 7-31-2025

Hey there. Last week was a series of battles between work, life, and a newsletter. It was a growing time, a time of transition and time to try and wrap my head around the growing responsibilities in my life and what that means for my writing. It was also a time of softness. Moments of respite, and fostering some connections that felt good and expansive to my heart. Life is a wobbling balance act, and lately I’ve felt more wobbling than balance. So here’s some poetry, from both ends of the spectrum.

Meditation on Old Wounds

See how turbulent winds
blow sweet words away
sand on black top
sand on black top
clouds in blue sky
the blue sky where nothing good sticks
where every promise comes with
an emergency life vest,
and when I get scared,
I can pull the cord
explode the meaning
dismiss it for a lie
another half-truth
sugar sweetness to
worm their way in
and nothing is true
but the stink of my rejection and
love is a dark cloud
I must constantly clear away
clear away
to empty blue skies
lest I be caught in the storm
once again battered
sand on black top
why do I continue reaching
for the chance to be seen
to be known
in all my stormy dark
when I am unknowable
I will wiggle my way out of any noose
of supposed love
it only hurts
it only hurts
it only hurts

except
when
it doesn't


Reawaken

Feel this ancient rumbling
shake and tremble
below what was once
barren ground
the river springs to life
from the soft and patient rains
bubbling up from
the forgotten cradle
soaking the ground
feeding the forest
until it overflows
warm and crashing
over banks
mountainous peaks above
hardened in cold breaths
and warmed
with praise, of god-like hands
and the land settles
into its rhythm
of pulsing
electric
joy

First Loves

You never forget. Do you? That first love. The first erratic heart palpitations, the unbridled joy and shaking knees when they’d walk into the room? It’s true. The memories of those people, places, experiences have shaped the way we approach or flee from similar feelings that arise along the path of our life. It is the same in writing.

I’m sure, if you’re a writer with some years and miles behind you, you’ve gained experience, plowed through or given up on projects, and learned a little bit from every sentence and every stanza. Even if you’re fairly new to the craft, you still probably remember your first attempts and have learned from them, how to be a little better each time.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I still have a folder of my poetry from high school. I don’t keep it in hopes that someday I can revamp them to share with the world. Great goddess no. I keep them to remind myself of the first tremblings of love that struck me when I realized I could put words to paper to mirror the chaos inside. That I could write out feelings and emotions. That I had a voice. That I could use it. I keep those rambling, teenage angsty writings to remind myself of the first throes of passion, as awkward and stumbling as they were, and why every new project should be approached, with the same stirrings of love, excitement and untempered desire.

I also keep them to show myself how far I’ve come. How much I’ve learned, and how much I’ve improved.

I believe the grace and goodness of a writer comes, in part, from remembering the passion and applying our ever-growing knowledge to it. If we’re all one or the other, our writing will either be an incomprehensible mess, fliting off through the meadow picking daisies and talking to forest creatures, or a stoic, by the book repetition of perfectly punctuated lines that feels more like a textbook on fiction, than an actual story.

A good story is a balance of passion and craft and remembering why we fell in love with writing in the first place helps us to approach our new projects with the fervor of that kid in Freshman English without having to rhyme every stanza or create perfect stereotypes for her characters. Just like when you are seeped in first love, your joy shows through your writing when you are doing it without too much emphasis on what it can and should do for your future endeavors, but just to enjoy the shivers it brings you in the present.

At the same time, like the earned experience of an older lover, you know how to manipulate the language, intensify the feelings, and push the right buttons with a perfect amount of pressure to bring your readers over the top in their own emotional response, all while doing it with good grammar and in a timely manner.

So today, take a few minutes and remember your first love (human or word based) and think about what stirred your heart so much about it. Think about the unbridled joy and relentless passion. Try to replicated it on the page, put yourself in the new love phase with your writing and see where it takes you. Don’t stop to judge or rewrite, or edit. Just…do what comes naturally. It’s not like anyone else will be privy to these thoughts. They’re yours alone. So have fun with them.

Priority

Hello writers and readers. I hope you all enjoyed a long weekend and had some time to yourselves for writing or exploring your creativity. I have been balancing the new school schedule as well as social engagements, old-dog vet appointments, and enrichment programs for my kiddos. I’ve been logging extra miles in preparation for the Colorado Ragnar Relay and juggling the details of 12 individuals coordinating 36 hours of their lives together.

What I haven’t been doing is writing.

Or editing.

Or even brainstorming.

It doesn’t bode well for a blogger who touts being a writer to not write. So what does one do, when life around her seems to sap every moment? She prioritizes and shakes off some of the unimportant to feed her soul. After all, that’s what I’m always preaching to you fine people to do, right? I can’t very well tell you how to walk the road while I muck around in the ditch.

So I’m back to the computer this week, setting up some goals for the year. My 40th trip around the sun should have something monumental yes? Besides my body falling apart and gravity being especially cruel on all my jiggly bits? I need something uplifting to balance it all out. So I’m making lists and culling the overgrown herd of obligatory adulting.

We all get overwhelmed and distracted with life and let our time to write, or to paint, or knit or whatever it is that feeds our bigger brain get kicked off the schedule. My hope is that we understand how empty that missing piece leaves us and work to fill it back in again.

As this is my case, I will only be contributing to this blog four times a month (2 blog posts, 2 VerseDays) in an effort to put more of my time towards my novels and the new Poetry Anthology coming out in the Spring.

I’m not sure who will miss my weekly thought purges, but rest assured, I will still be darkening your door, just a smidge less.

Please feel free to send me your poetry or flash fiction, I’ve extended the deadline to December 31st for inclusion into the poetry anthology, “No Small Things”. Even if you’ve contributed before, I’d love to hear more. Thanks for your time and consideration!

Until next week, go work on your stuff! I want to know your time isn’t being wasted and that we’re all doing well by ourselves and our passions. Reach out to me, if you do have a spare moment, and let me know what you’ll be doing to prioritize your creativity in the next few months!

Love ya,

Sarah

VerseDay 12-6-18

Happy VerseDay! It’s a bit late due to extra have-to’s in my life, but sometimes a verse in the dying light of day is all the more sweet.

If you have a piece you’d like to share, feel free to send it to:

sereichert@comcast.net

or in any comment on this post or at my page.

I’d love to hear from you, so send me your poems about winter, the holidays, or whatever thoughts have invaded your mind. Cheers!

Not Myself Of Late

I am long away from from the girl I once knew.

The embodiment of all that was good and bright;

swallowed by annihilating-gray skies.

Mired by the confused need,

Where my heart flounders in the soft darkness.

I pluck it out; calm it’s fluttering and gasping.

Gently shush it’s cries for you…

I let you upend me.

I let you through the layers

And the idea of you

Embedded into my soil.

Tender but steadfast seedling.

I forgot myself.

I’ve forgotten myself.

Forgotten that you are just shadow

Borne from the reflections of my desire.

A chemical reaction, unchecked.

I was dry underbrush,

And you, just a catalytic match.

But now

I am the fire.

I am heat and devastation.

I don’t need your suggestive darkness

To know that I am bright.