Tag Archives: Poetry.poems

Poet Lost – A Found Poem

We have lost a poet, a friend. Viv Blake, known to most as Viv In France, was a regular at many of the online Poetry forums. She was a regular contributor of fine poetry, and a dedicated reader of other poets work. She was one of the first to follow me here, and if I look at my stats page she sits at the top as my most frequent commenters, by a large margin. Always polite, always encouraging, forever finding a positive thing to say, even when it was clear she was less than enthused. She was also my most dedicated proofreader, making sure any mistake I made did not linger and cause me embarrassment.

I did not know her well enough to write anything for her, or about her, but there are pages upon pages in my comments with her name attached. I have created a found poem of her words. The following consists only of comments she has left on my work, and I think there is a kernel of her there. I hope she would find it worthy of stopping by. Goodbye Viv, you will be missed.

In Viv’s Words

Your memories make a sublime poem,
I just wish it wasn’t so real.

I know that feeling. Halfway between awe and shivering.

I like all your shelves of books and photos – we seekers need them to feed us.
I love this one.
This one brought a lump to my throat –
not a word wasted.
A story which is greater than the few words which contain it,
Poignant but beautiful. No regrets,
not a word wasted,
we mustn’t let those memories disappear.
I thank God that there are still books to be read.

I share your despair
at this unfair world.
I can only ask: Where
will it end?
Keep your chin up.

I would weep for a fallen oak,
loving and calm,
waiting for warmth, for renaissance,
to start living again.
When the cherry blossom falls in April,
I experience a similar lightening of spirit.
There are enough problems in this life
without spoiling the pleasures with guilt.
So glad I don’t live in a city!

Sad to say, this is profoundly true,
I can’t pretend that I care what happens to my ashes,
but the children assure us that it matters to them.
A sad truth, your last line will stay with me.


Filed under Poetry

Sister Confidential’s Voodoo Shop


Image via Wikipedia














The Dumaine street entrance was for tourist,
bloated on chicory coffee and beignets,
or sloshing hurricanes and searching for AC;
neon signs and the kitschy tools of the trade,
a charm to cajole a lover, belt of chicken’s feet —
all with an inflated sticker for unbelieving customers.

Locals knew to use the back entrance,
where they came to see Sister Confidential.
She performed the rituals just as they asked,
the ancient ones most had forgotten and
few were brave enough to experience.
Through the blur of senses and incense fog she
created visions of destiny and ransacked
the memories of ghost and ancestors.

Passers by could hear the muffled weeping
of the interview aftermath and watch the
unsteady exit of creole faithful —
they would pause for a minute, consider,
then move on with a nervous laugh.


Written for the Sunday Whirl wordle.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts