A Line In The Sand, by Debi Swim

A Line In The Sand
by Debi Swim

I look at earth, sea, air and all things therein. The detail, design, intricacy, variety, purpose, how things work together and it is a sign to me of something supernatural… other than. I see in all peoples a bent toward worship, service, and some acknowledgement of God that interprets itself into a religion. The very few who eschew the concept of a creator have rejected one God for another. They become their own god living for their own ends, gratified in their ability to shape their own lives, and answer to no one but their own conscience. It is all a choice. That I choose one over the other doesn’t make me more enlightened – or less so. I speak for myself, not for you. I’ve drawn a line between what I believe and what I can’t believe and those things I will take on shaky faith.

In this universe
immense and mysterious
there’s room for magic.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 289.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

Alone Not Lonely, by Debi Swim

Alone Not Lonely
by Debi Swim

I didn’t choose solitude;
solitude chose me.
Hurry, bustle, noise
of the world bruised
my soul till I could not
hear the song of the lark,
the music of the wind,
the wisdom of the clouds,
the slow, steady pulse
of the earth’s heart
so I began to withdraw
to the subtle call of quiet.
She soothes my spirit
with whispers, calm,
colors of rich, luscious
hues of marigold sun
and turquoise skies
goose grey of storms
that toss the static and
spark of strife away.
Even this room from which
I write is so quiet I can hear
a faint hum, a strum of OM
nothing distracts. Solitude
chose me.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 294.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

I Am A Poem, by Debi Swim

I Am A Poem
by Debi Swim

I am a poem who doesn’t want
to be understood. I don’t want
a reason to be, I just want to be.
To be swished around the mouth
like the first sip of wine. Savored.
To be heard as a whole then
separated into instruments
lyrics, impressions and emotion.

I am a starting place, off ramp,
corollary route, tertiary road and
little gravel lane where memories,
experience, longing reside restlessly.
I am of the many and yet individual.
I sing. I dance. I cry, rage, laugh.
I speak plainly and in riddles.
I am a poem. A song. A voice.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 295.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

Cycles Of Life, by Debi Swim

Cycles Of Life
by Debi Swim

Hi, Dad, It’s me again
Do you have time to talk?
(Oh, here’s a pretty vase of
flowers from my garden.
The roses are from the bushes
you use to prune for me.)
I wanted to catch you up
about what’s been going on.
Seems like things happen so fast,
then, sometimes they just drag.
Same old, same old… I guess,
School, work, soccer games.
Braces for Billy, Julie into dance,
Aunt Millie, she’s in the nursing home.
Ellen had a little girl, finally.
She and Bob are so excited
after waiting so long.
Oh, Stan died. Heart attack.
But maybe you knew that already?
Are you here, Dad?
Can you even hear me?
I wanted to ask. I need to know.
Is there more than this
endless cycle of
living and dying?

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 296.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

Dark Forest Of The Soul, by Debi Swim

Dark Forest Of The Soul
by Debi Swim

It smells like fear
acrid, sharp, razor sharp
after the safety of knowing,
not questioning, having faith.
I don’t like this part of the woods
I’m finding myself in. It’s lonely
here. Quiet. Every snap of a twig
sounds like a gunshot. I flinch.

It smells like disease. Unhealthy,
musty, rank cheese, beginnings
of rot. Yet, if truth is true then
perhaps this isn’t the end though
it must seem that way to a tadpole,
a caterpillar, polyps. Metamorphosis.
Not death. Development. Growth.
Transformation. Transmutation. Change.

It smells like petrichor. Rain after a long
dry spell. Refreshing. Healing. A tinge of
newness, beginnings, hope, something
more than before. Deeper than. A quenching.
I can’t go back. I’m too far in. I’ll follow
this path to its end. I’ll trust that this path
brings me to the light and I’ll blink my eyes
at its glory after the darkness of the forest. Amen.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 281.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

Copper Mettle, by Debi Swim

Copper Mettle
by Debi Swim

Beginnings are copper, newly minted pennies
promises dropped into the piggy bank for
a rainy day, the value in the collecting, saving,
looking forward. Hope squirreled away in a
fragile thing to be broken in the end. For all
things end with a verdigris coating, blue-
green from sweat, tears and the rust of time.
And for every ending there is a new beginning
with a blue-green patina promise at the end.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 258 and Prompt 259.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and happy WV poet.

Mew Muse, by Debi Swim

Mew Muse
by Debi Swim

The morning dawns, becomes a familiar thing,
after the night’s forgetting. I sit at my laptop
waiting for the words to come, a direction to
point the way. I feel your presence out in the

hall, you are stalking the light that speckles
the floor. Stealthy, slyly, you reach out a paw
and pounce. I will you to come into my room,
to twine between my feet, rub against my shins,

jump in my lap and mew music into my thoughts.
But, no, I hear you out on the sunny side
of the patio. You sit on regal haunches,
looking out over the dewy lawn, completely

ignoring me. At first, I am merely impatient, a
little huffy at your attitude but as the moments
draw a long line on the day I become afraid…
wonder if this time you’ve gone for good.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 255.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and happy WV poet.

No Degree of Separation, by Debi Swim

No Degree of Separation
by Debi Swim

Ah, sweet sorrow that accompanies me
in waking hours and in night’s sad dreams.
That you should give such pleasure and such pain
is a curious thing to me, burden
and yet, a comfort. You show me all the
places we have been, point out a stranger’s
shy smile and how it dimples just as his
and in my dreams that feel so tangible
I’d swear I felt the weight of his tender
touch, exquisite sweetness, exquisite sting.
Mind and body so entwined that thoughts, thoughts
could make the heart ache, the eyes tear, torture
the lungs with air withheld. Oh, sweet sorrow
that transcends transient time to weave her
paths from mind to the very core of life.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 254.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and happy WV poet.

Collateral Damage, by Debi Swim

Collateral Damage
by Debi Swim

grief did not ask if it could come.
nor beg my leave. nor was civil
in any respect of civility…barged
in, she did and changed my life
again. Beside the thin ghostly
lines marked in rows over my heart
she, with surgeon’s precision, scalpel’s
keenness cut the wound with one swift
straight slice removed another part
of my heart, daubed the blood, and sewed
with the finest measure and skilled hand
the daintiest seam that would in time
leave the faintest trace of white. But, I
disappear one small piece at a time
leave behind the rasp of withering husk.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 250.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and happy WV poet.
georgeplace@suddenlink.net
Poets Parlor – https://fmeoformyeyesonly.wordpress.com/

The Voice In My Head, by Debi Swim

The Voice In My Head
by Debi Swim

This poem doesn’t want to be written.
Its voice taunts me that I don’t know
enough. It shouts that I am not a poet,
for goodness sakes, who do I think I am?
Well, obviously, I’m not a Poet with a
capital P but I do write something I call
poetry and what does it matter if I’m
not published or well known or whatever,
my voice trails off softer and softer.

The voice snickers.
All the great poems, she says, have been
penned, all the great topics taken. All the
glorious words, lissome phrases, perfect
forms used. You, she sneered, are too late
to this hallowed task. Just a want to be.

Well, but we can’t all be a Dickinson, a Heany,
an Oliver, or a Pardlo. Besides when they first
got those itchy fingers and those emotions
clamoring to be thrown up like yellow bile,
and hurt that throbbed like an abscessed tooth,
well, did it all come out ready for publication
or did it all come out in a rush of whooeeee
I needed that. I needed to say that. I NEEDED
to hear myself say that.

Okay, so answer me that, voice. But, voice had
left. Voice had no more sneer or snuff left. And
I thought, humph, well, and so. I am going to
write me some words. I’m going to let these
words speak for themselves and if, if, IF, they want
to tumble into a poem, well, okay, then. Like, I
have anything to do with it. When the words want
to come, when they are ready to be born, when that
head crowns, baby, you got yourself a lusty cry of life.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 248.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and happy WV poet.