A Forgotten Field and A Poet’s Curse

Poet’s Curse
What a gift it is to view this world through a poet’s lens,
to feel the morning wind, and then spend the afternoon
penning just the right words to describe the windy lines.
Stealing an hour to describe a sensation that blew away.
Never being able to turn off the thoughts seeping through
is actually a curse, that I would not wish on anyone who
would like to feel a morning breeze and then simply move
along and be on their way, not noticing how the look in an
eye, or a shadow cast at noon, is the perfect subject for
the next inspired and labored verse of another stolen day.
Forgotten Fields
There’s a place nearby
that remains unspoiled
from the bulldozers of
profit; just the worms
to turn the aged earth.
I stop, stare, and listen
to a diverse ecosystem
that exists without help
and without interference.

A chirping bird dashes from
tree to tree. A lizard scurries
underneath. A rabbit sprints.
A butterfly lifts and descends.
A bush sways in the wind.
A lone coyote looks our way
before disappearing to the
place from where she came.
The land gives back the air
the last of a flowing river,
leaving the bed secure
until the return of the
summer rains.

I gaze and inhale
the desert scents.
My breath is paused
as sadness rushes in.

How many more times
can I walk this trail?
How many more times
can I stand and stare?
How many more years
will this place thrive
before it too becomes
a distant memory, like
the fields I roamed as
a child?

Thank you for stopping by and reading my poems about a curse brought on by observation and an observable field (for now). I honored Earth Day by writing, “Forgotten Field.” We have much to celebrate since the first Earth Day, fifty years ago. Many acts have been passed since 1970, that were crafted to protect our natural world. Of course, the work continues.

I was encouraged by the voices of many young people, while listening to a live stream event on Earth Day, who are doing their part to make sure that work continues, every day. Sending you an inspired weekend. I hope you are able to get out and observe our beautiful natural earth. 🌏❤️Michele

Pictures 1-4: Each taken along the New River Trail in Peoria, Arizona. Please note that while the plants featured may photograph well in color and form, they are not all welcome or helpful, being invasive in nature. Hopefully, that does not include me. 😉

© MyInspiredLife

14 thoughts on “A Forgotten Field and A Poet’s Curse

  1. asumoftheparts

    I understand your poet’s “curse,” but I think I see it as a blessing. I get something in my head and it won’t leave me alone. I write it and rewrite it in my brain till it’s ready to live on paper where my eye can share the vision with my brain.

    My most recent thought, shared with Tom last night, is something I remember from watching the black and white newscasts of the Vietnam War. As the body count rose, I, like most Americans, began to see the soldiers as an abstract (“Oh, that’s terrible.”) and then move on to our daily lives.

    I believe I”m beginning the same sad journey now. Every time we turn on the radio or TV, another count is given—cases or dead—state by state, nationally, NY City, till I become immune to the “caring.” It becomes a mathematical equation. I have to force myself to remember that each of those illnesses or deaths is someone’s loved one—a child, husband wife or mother or dad.

    I couldn’t get this thought out of my mind last night, it traveling as an invasive thought will, through the tunnels of my literary memory until I remembered that “No man is an Island, entire of itself…. Any man’s death diminishes me.” Donne’s timeless words were not intended for me, but through the ages the poet’s lines found me, touched me, locked as they are forever in my brain that just won’t let go.

    Thank God for poets.


    No man is an island, Entire of itself, Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thy friend’s Or of thine own were: Any man’s death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind, And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.


    Liked by 3 people

    1. Vicki, It has taken me a few days to log back in and give your words the reply they deserve. Although slow to respond to your Saturday comments, your words and Donne’s words have been on my mind. I see the numbers when I catch the nightly news, which happens about every other day now. With each count, the awareness I can’t shake is that each patient probably held the hand of a nurse or doctor, when they were taking their last breath, instead of a loved one. That image is making each rise in count painfully sad and very real for those sacrificing so much, and terribly frightening for those watching from a distance – an “abstract” that is safely distant, as you mentioned. 💔

      Like your lines that will not leave you alone until your eye and brain unite, I am appreciative that you did not give up before remembering Donne’s lines that are so fitting of our times. Thanks again for stopping and sharing your heart. 🙏

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Vicki, Thank you for your thoughtful and heartfelt comments that we can all learn from. Seeing the world through the added filter of a poetic lens brings us many things, including the responsibility of sharing what we see, hear, and feel with the world, as you so beautifully have. 💗 I have more to say about your relevant comments – which I will do later today. I have to get ready for a Zoom call in a few minutes. 🤪 Until then, thank you, Poet.✍🏼😘

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Hurrah for your love and respect for the natural world — “unspoiled from the bulldozers of
    profit.” Those bulldozers of profit sure do get around… One of my past blog posts is about the summers I spent in Queens NY — where my grandmother, who had bought the first house to be built on the block in the 1930s, also owned an open lot on either side of her small home. This meant we had lots of room to play freeze tag, to string up a trapeze in a locust tree, to run around with our friends from the neighborhood. And she had room for an organic garden, berry bushes and lots of cats. When she died, my mother sold the property, and a developer immediately erected a large house on both of the side lots, dwarfing the original house. Deep sigh… Thus endeth my childhood summer Eden. Thank you for this poem and your reflections about looking at /experiencing the world as a poet/writer.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much, for reading and for your thoughtful commentary. I will look for the post you mention. What is the name of your post? Thank you for sharing your wonderful childhood memories. I hope you have the time and desire to read/listen to other posts – the natural world is a common motif across my poems. 🌲🌻🌞


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