an iny_tRo_ duction

an iny_tRo_ duction.

A quiet Saturday

A quiet Saturday-

A quiet day, spent by

sleeping in. Awaking slowly,

into the afternoon, very much

unlike me.

Meditative as the hum drum hum

of our heater fills our bedroom.

All of a sudden, it feels like a game of make believe.

A game of Hide and Seek.

As I search my minds eye-

for some wise words

to live by.

Poetry is a Muse

who often comes and goes,

without much thought or effort

on my part.

She either comes a knocking…

or she does not.

All of a sudden, it feels like a game of make believe.

A game of Hide and Seek.

As I search my minds eye-

for some wise words

to live by.

Some days

I am the first

to admit,

I am a bit

like a gas gauge

stuck on empty.

The babble bustle of the Morning:

The babble bustle of the Morning-

As I wake up I move so

slow, and my mind does wander

on if I wish to write Today

and where my mind should

go?

 

The babble bustle of my Morning,

my Mother in Law is already

loudly screaming.

As often She tends to do

whenever our dogs are barking

She flips the heck out.

 

If I could talk to her

rationally, I would explain that

Dogs do bark and its silly

to get angry.

In fact my husband & myself

prefer that our dogs bark naturally-

as that was in the job they were

hired on for, to guard our house

sincerely.

 

But with Her,

there is no rationality.

So I do not waste my breath.

I let her morning screaming

go on and simply fade into

my morning background,

I ignore the unrest.

 

With Morning comes,

slow inspiration

it drips as slow

as my dripped coffee

which my body requires neatly,

just as a car requires

gasoline.

 

So I go downstairs to

face the barking dogs

to face the screaming Widow too

I go downstairs to make my

coffee & then I will bring

a cup filled with dark blackness

and crawl back into my liar

my dragons den

of a bedroom.

 

Here I will drink my coffee

and allow my thoughts

to percolate

I will try my best to tune out

all the noise, and find a place of mind,

to meditate.

 

Then I will write.

I will

babble

bustle

burst

with words, images,& poetry

which will make total sense

to almost Nobody.

 

Yet it pleases me

to do so.

To write, to mold the words like clay

into something solid

like ideas, creativity and all the junk

that comes with the art

of writing simple poetry.

Sweat

Sweat-

9/27/14

Breaking out

into a rash,

of ugly words

broken down metaphors

and crashed out cars

of forgotten highways

I long to pass.

 

Breaking out,

in a sweat

of random rhyme

poetry without boundaries

rhythms without meter

sadness without time.

 

and I

shiver

coldness creeps in

with the turning

flip,flip,flip

of the Fan’s silver blades

crushing the air

 

making time

stand still.

 

A writer without ideas

is like an empty blanket

encircling empty dreams.

 

Breaking out,

in a rash

Breaking out,

in  a sweat,

Breaking out

into….

 

silence

unspoken slices

of imagery

best left forgotten,

left out in the cold

forgotten from a

dream.

Promo Video,”In Exile from Maxwell Park: poems.”

My most recent poetry chapbook does contain a bit of photos and art but it is mostly just poems. I published it at the same day as the Anthology poetry project,”Help Wanted : poets please apply.” Edited by Emily Sturgill, 2014.

This recent work is called,”In exile from Maxwell park: poems.” by Emily Sturgill, 2014.
It is currently on FREE kindle download starting today and here is a brief video I just did to promote it on Youtube.com.

this link beneath takes you directly to download it:

http://www.amazon.com/Exile-Maxwell-Park-poems-ebook/dp/B00L72AT7E/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1404150290&sr=1-2&keywords=In+love+with+a+word%3A+poetry+by+Emily+Sturgill

Bad Poetry

Sometimes, some days, I fall victim

to writing Bad poetry. I know when’s

it bad when it’s ugly and sad.

When the over-ripe melon

is rotten to its core.

It’s really annoying, frustrating, and unforgiving

to be writing real bad craft

poems made of sorrow, breaking like glass.

poems that fall like drool from

my chapped, sun sore lips

words that escape

like a plague of misfits.

It’s quite clear, I am sitting down

deep again in my own private pity

party, the drama clutches me

I fear it will never end

as I catch myself writing

way too much, so very much, really

just too too much,

Bad Poetry again…

The beating of a broken brain.

Snapshot_20140322

The beating of a broken brain
as the world spins
She tilts at an angle on her axis,
rotations
and as the world begins to whirl, roll, and spin,

Onwards, ever onwards
her broken brain it beats from within.
It’s like the crashing classical music
from a drum.

This beating, bloated, breaking
ripping apart like thread from seams
Her broken beating bleeding brain
bruised
by too many

ideas all at once.
too many moments of
wondering lust.

too much delusion
or thought pollution.

She just cannot think straight
and
her words

begin to dissipate
into the swirling storm of
other brokenness-
over the Rage

at useless
misspellings
and forgotten phrases

at her inability
to create something
random & pure

a whisper
a roar
a lion

which purrs.

Her beating bruised and bleeding
useless and insane
poetic yet dumbfounded
lost lonely yet lovely

excuse of a brain.

White Noise

back cover

back cover

White Noise 3/12/14

sleep
sleeping
snoring
running
dreaming
softly
he is breathing.

safely
sleeping
soundly
slam
shout
yell
dance
stop
no really stop it.

its all just imaginary.
its white noise
loudly
banging
inside
my head.

sleep
sleeping
snoring
running
dreaming
softly
he is breathing.

he is breathing,
this love,
this Lover
this husband
of mine.

Today

Today my words don’t come out.

Today silence is all I am about.

My thoughts may scream or

sometimes even shout…

but just for Today that’s not what I am about.

Cold and chilled to the bone.

Icy stone reflections upon

a broken ridged frozen ground-

and when the snow comes softly-

when the snow comes softly

when the snow comes slowly

it never makes a sound.

Collecting itself into white velvet icy tapestry,

beneath its dusty fragile-ness that is a strength that lasts.

It tears us through months of Winter

and winds that howl

winds that blast.

But no more words do I have here-

there is nothing left to say

except tread lightly and admire the silence

of fallen snow

which stole my words Today.

Soul-compass

To believe

in somethings in which others,

do not-takes Faith, Courage & Hope.

 

To believe

in the abstract, in the philosophical notions,

of Truth, Charity, Virtue and pure agape Love-

for man, women, child or beast-

 

To have this forlorn belief that

your actions really do matter.

To have the certainty,

that above all else

you must honor others

as much as you honor yourself–

in some cases, perhaps, even more.

 

To live with the knowledge,

that you are more than:

a mere breathing machine,

taking up space & air.

 

But instead something greater,

a part of the cosmos,

a part of Humanity,

a part of shared History.

 

That whether you accept it or not,

you are part of the

endless sea from here to eternity.

 

You are something greater,

someone with a beating heart,

and a wondrous, wandering Soul.

 

If you trust your instincts, your heartbeats,

your wandering Soul,

it will lead the way-

it will show you the compassion

along a compass-

 

of the right or wrong way,

in which to go.