Spring: A series of imperfect poetry.

Spring. Fresh flowers, leaves in bloom. Sunshine with a cool crisp still lingering in the air. Hopes for summer. I have been inspired by the changing weather in April and early May. I wanted to share some of my work written in that time. Additionally, I wanted to hit on one thing: perfection. We all know there really is no such thing as “perfect.” Many of us strive to be flawless and as writers and creators, athletes and workers, whatever it may be that we are doing. Most of us want to be the best we can be. What I have found is that I create better work when I am not trying to make it perfect. This is where inspiration for “Blissful Imperfection” came from. I started thinking back, yet again, as to why I stopped writing poetry. I remember a course in college where I wrote a piece I really loved and that resonated with me at that time. Like anyone who writes, makes music, art or creates anything they are really proud of, I was super excited about my piece. I couldn’t wait to share it and turn it in. Well, my professor ripped it apart because it wasn’t matching syllables in each verse. I remember being so upset because I felt I created great imagery and distinct sound. The prompt was open ended and had no syllable requirement, or mention of utilizing iambic pentameter. I went in to see my professor and he was intent on all poetry following certain guidelines. As far as I can remember, that is when I stopped enjoying writing. I went through the class changing what felt right or creative to me, in order to fit syllable and verse guidelines. I think I got an A at the end of it, but none of those poems were truly mine. After the class ended my second semester freshman year, I stopped writing poetry. Until now.

I like my imperfect poetry. It represents what I see, how I feel and how I want to be represented. I am happy writing without racking my mind to come up with the most complicated synonym to replace a simpler word. When I sit outside and write about the beauty around me, I like being able to write and look at the same time, rather than write, count syllables, write, look up a different word to find the number of syllables I need to have, etc. When I write about relationships, a memory or anything I am feeling, I want the poem to be real and in that moment of what I was trying to say. I have had typos and published them on Instagram, realizing it later. I leave it. Go ahead grammar police and judge my intelligence. I capitalize some words I want to so they stand out. I had one person tell me I spelled Cuckoo Bird incorrectly. In my poem it is Coo – Coo. I did that because it was to have a double meaning. The bird was cooing. It was intentional. Sometimes, I stick to syllable patterns without even knowing it. Sometimes my verses align with the exception of one. It isn’t meant to be any other way, than what it is I write. Do not get me wrong, I always welcome feedback and I appreciate texts and comments when I have typos (meant to be or not), but my poetry is for me first and foremost, and then for my supporters. If you are going to judge me for my work – it is not for those who feel they are inclined to do so. Kindly unfollow, or look away.

I may never be a published poet, or recognized by the Poetry Society as I used to hope. Maybe I will. Who knows. Who cares. In the end, that isn’t the point of writing. For my people, my front row, my supporters. These poems are for you. From the bottom of my heart.

xx – Sarah

Spring: A series of imperfect poetry

I. Blissful Imperfection

II. Mountains

III. Roots

IV. Flowers: An Understanding

V. Landscapes

VI. Artistic Masterpiece

*The only poem I actually counted and stuck to a syllable pattern

VII. Bare Bounty

I. Blissful Imperfection

A deep, wavering soul
So beautifully messy

Blissful imperfection
A chaotic masterpiece

II. Mountains

As
As I
As I climb
As I climb I
As I climb I look
As I climb I look down
As I climb I look down upon
As I climb I look down upon my
As I climb I look down upon my worries

III. Roots

As a storm descends upon a sprout,
The soil grounds it to withstand
The wind,
The rain,
All the dark forces.

Eventually, the sprout will flourish,
Adding Beauty to gardens, fields,
And open ranges.

Without the soil,
There is no flower.
There is no beauty.

Let us not forget,
What holds our roots in place.

IV. Flowers: An Understanding

To live
To love
To grow

Magnificent and majestic
Flourished

But, let us not forget
The whimpering wet flower
Blooming East
Pushing to prosper past
The storm

Wilting

V. Landscapes

Life’s lows
Like the bottom
Of the mountain’s valley
Suffocating, daunting

Life’s highs
Upon the peak
Looking out among all
The wonder of the world

Living
Our emotions
Human experience
We aren’t so different

From the landscapes

VI. Artistic Masterpiece

My heart aches for the mountains
Baby birds chirping along
Frogs croaking
Crickets singing their song

I long to hear tree’s leaves
Rattling like a tambourine
In the wind
Housed upon the redwoods

My spry soul yearns for tired feet
After sedulous stepping
Up and up
To mountain’s zenith

I pray I never lose sight
Of Mother Nature’s paint
Her artwork
Outshining any Monet

VII. Bare Bounty

In Spring bloom
We admire the tree
In all her beauty

Through Summer
And the changing colors
Of our favorite Fall

As Winter passes,
And leaves fly,
Why do we not appreciate
The limber branches

Who weather the cold
Survive sunless days
Mount illuminating icicles
Radiating Rainbows

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