When I write poetry, an idea seeds, lines sprout, grow forth and, bloom as if in shadow. At this point, I often haven’t decided on the form  the poem will take. 

During the 50 minutes’ commute to and from work, two to three days per week, I tap away with two thumbs on my iPhone 6 keyboard, typing into the Simplenote app. 

Frenetically, refining, rewriting, and rearranging. Persistence and revisiting are key in wrangling with each word. The fingers of my right hand tap out the rhythm and count of each line on my right leg. 

Reflecting on my writing is a strange experience as I’m no longer in the author head space. As a spectator, I often wonder how I managed to get the creation into the form it’s in. 

Currently, I’m wrestling with unexpectedly challenging, auto biographical poems from before and after Fort Royal Fakery. In the mean time, this poem is one of my favourites.  I like the way the words describe  speed, force, and momentum of water. 

Being born in the year of the Chinese water rabbit, with a Myers Briggs’ introverted feeling personality type, bodies of water calm, enliven, and sustain me. 

When I saw the 1995 movie, Waterworld, it struck me that this dystopian future was a little too close to reality for comfort. It portrays the impact on humanity after the Earth’s polar ice has melted. 

Whilst I have an affinity with water, I prefer to observe or swim in it rather than sail upon it. 

You can read more about my creative journey on my blog theINFP.com. 

The following poem, composed in 2019 is entitled

Scarce resource

Pouring down, hitting ground; transmutating.

Seeps slowly underground, no abating.

Gradually following gravity’s pull,

Channelled torrents churn to violently mull.

Cascading courses entwine, clashing. This

Roaring deluge crashes with a hiss.

Omnidirectional mist, high and low.

Fleetingly dancing, riding to and fro,

On gentle cavern’s zephyr, in the dark;

No living creature to watch or to hark.

Droplets traverse the void of chasm, old.

Catching hold, dingle dangle, dripping cold.

Rivulets forming, trickling, finding pass,

Slowly towards the edge, achieving mass.

Flowing from upon high to splash below.

Tinkling then momentary ripples show,

Moving across slow ebbing surface, creep.

Joining still amorphic pool, running deep.

Below is a recording of my recitation of the poem, comments will be gratefully received.