Loneliness is holding onto that which has let you go. Sorrow is clinging to connection that has passed through a veil into the unknown. Anguish is forgetting that for everything there is a season and every season has its time and that the trick of joyful living is growing gardens in pain’s rhymes.
I hereby invite you to critique me on a poem I drummed up last night.
Please feel free to post a reply and tag me, since I don’t have comments activated here. I’m happy to have people see your insights.
DEPARTURE by: Sheralyn Pratt
Goodbye— not farewell. This is a good bye. I never heard the difference until now. Until you. Until I fared you well when I should have bid you goodbye. I didn’t know… I thought they were the same. I didn’t hear the difference ‘til I paired them with your name … a goodbye vs. a farewell… two compound words with very different flipsides. And the truth is, you have fared well enough and to survive I must bid you goodbye.
Goodbye— not farewell. This is a good bye. I never heard the difference until I fared you well when I should have bid you goodbye. I didn’t know… I thought they were the same. I didn’t hear the difference ‘til I paired them with your name … a goodbye vs. a farewell… two compound words with very different flipsides. And the truth is, you have fared well enough and to survive I must bid you goodbye.
In nature, hundreds of thousands of sea turtles lay millions of eggs each year in prime beach sand. 90% of their eggs will hatch. but only 1% will survive and thrive in maturity.
I’ve found that dreams can be much the same — mesmerizing as they emerge in tiny perfection before sand-crawling their way to the great sea of possibilities where predators lurk, challenges never flinch, and competition doesn’t blink or share.
It’s no wonder we often hold our dream hatchlings close when they first emerge from their nest. It’s a rough world out there and so few dreams survive. It makes sense to want to play Peter Pan and hold on to every tiny possibility like a child… but the truth is we must let dreams go — let them crawl the beach and swim — and know that those that brave the sea of life will evolve and bring new life again.
One of my favorite poems by my grandma is “One Sheep.”
In truth, I have many “favorite” poems by my grandma. I was around 20 when I first read it online. The internet was just becoming a thing and my uncle posted all my grandma’s published work on his website.
I was manning a receptionist desk when I discovered “One Sheep” — reading it again and again while marveling how well she captured a sentiment I think nearly everyone can relate to.
Below is a scan of the poem, as originally published, followed by a recording of me reading it.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
One Sheep. All rights Reserved. Copyright 1941, 1997, 2019.
The 2016 election caused a bit of a social kerfuffle in the US.
Uncounted conversations with friends in the aftermath led me to this write this poem:
by: Sheralyn Pratt
It is old wisdom that the way to weaken a people is to get them to think outside their sphere of influence. If it’s beyond their horizon, it is but a play on a stage. Spectators can watch but they hold no true sway. They can only cheer or speak outrage to claims and hearsay —hands tied, thoughts bound to a place far away— until those far-away thoughts disrupt their own day-to-day. This is no accident. It is all a design to train the masses to have impotent minds. For unempowered souls are easily led and when the 99 feel helpless… well, you know what comes next. The good news is returning to power is a flip of a switch. Every animal does it— it’s that easy to fix: Tend to your sphere and all you can touch. See to its care and make it top-notch. Then, perhaps, if a call leads you to go far-and-wide, you can go, you can give, and improve what you find.
Ask anyone who’s known me all my life and they’ll attest to the fact that I have never self-identified as a poet.
Yet as I get to know the fictional characters I write for, I find myself describing their POVs (points of view) in poetic fashion.
Or, as I like to call it: Poetisophical™ — philosophical bedrock that allows you to deduce the state of heart.
This is a little different than traditional poetry, in my opinion. Maybe it’s actually poetry upside-down.
Poetry is known for its invitation to sit for a moment in someone else’s experience. Good poetry inspires sympathy or empathy in the listener — transporting them into a vicarious experience that allows them to see something in a new way.
My “poetisophical” poetry is a bit different in that the genesis is often the motives of fictional characters in a story. They might be the good guy, they might be the bad guy, or they might be some form of chaotic neutral in the middle.
But they have their points of view and their motives, and the poems I write often speak to the bedrock of their character.
Then, to beat the character in the story, you must beat their bedrock.
Here’s one such poetisophical poem that has most people split 50/50 on loving it and hating it.
What do you think?
By: Sheralyn Pratt
A truth becomes a lie the moment it arrives. For truth cannot be stopped —sometimes it is, sometimes it’s not— it holds its space and plays its part but holding still is not its art. For truth is on the move, you see, it has things to prove and places to be. So if you spot it once and proudly mark its plot, remember this: truth cannot be caught.