I wrote this a while ago (7 years…?); how is it so appropo today?

Sometimes, I need to write a new poem. On days when I’ve cried, contemplated, or just gotten so tired of myself: this is prime time for poetry-writing (albeit, tears on the keyboard; not quite the same effect as tear-streaked ink on parchment!). However, in recent years especially, I’ve remembered a similar, even better poem lies in a blue folder, waiting to be posted.


I started missing my dancing days
real bad watching
slick chicks slither and grind
perfect bodies against
bright oiled sun
lathered boys waiting by the phone
lips parted impatient hello
and how about those times
when they all came running? Couldn’t
stop them from striding
up to my back wrap strong arms
around my skin
my long hair pressed tightly to chest
saying oh yes, I’ll be there
see you then for sure
and maybe just maybe
one would be real
stay longer than a day
a week a year
or nine
and I started to cry
that it all used to be
so easy, so fine

I wanted to scream:
oh, no! oh, no! oh, no no no! I’m not the one

who can make it happen now
I’m on a slow ride
nowhere to go no friend to disgrace
when the man she wanted
ran to my hallowed place

how I started to dream
of one who could love me
in times like these not so easy
not so fine falling up getting down

in times like these can’t quite seem
to slither or grind
except in the corners of my mind
with a slow come-hither
smile to my Beloved

(c) 2013 Lady Diane Randall


Poem as Postscript to “What is Creativity?”

You may have read today’s earlier post, including a copy of my response to the above question posed by Talent Flush. I then felt the urge to post at least one poem that expresses my feelings about writing. This poem, Poetry, My Love, was originally published in 2005, in my book entitled, She of the Dreaming Sky, by Pearl’s Book ’em Publisher. However, two events caused the flame of this work to die down to a slow ember: One, the publisher was, at the time, changing direction in her efforts as both artist and inspiration. To whit: We sold about 35 copies, mostly to my mother and sister, plus a few friends. But whew, when I received that contract, oh… I cried. The fourteen-year-old inside me cried; a real publishing contract! At any rate, the other was the onset of my life-changing ms experience, which had been increasing its outward presence in me more and more by the time of publication. A few years later, my publisher graciously released me from the contract and returned all rights to me.

Therefore, I am pleased to present one poem that came from the inner depths of my ever-abiding love for poetry; in particular, the mystical experience of writing poetry:


She is Poetry
She is Truth
She is Love

Who else but Poetry leaves me
yearning at the page like a newly-kissed lover,
offering up my passionate pen
in return for her caress
behind my eyes
behind my lips
along my arms, my hands, my fingertips,
inside my heart?

Who else but Poetry entices me with the
language of ecstasy?
Who leads me into the liquid night of mystery?

She is Poetry
She is Truth
She is Love

She offers me a sky full of words
spilling out of a crystalline bowl,
drowning me in divine simplicity
until I become just a speck of light myself,
floating in the vastness of her womb,
waiting to be born.

Lady Diane Randall
(C) 2013

From She of the Dreaming Sky, by Diane C. Randall
Originally published in 2005
by Pearl’s Book ’em Publisher

ISBN: 0-9740520-9-4
Library of Congress: 2005907841
All rights remanded to the author, 2008

Authentic, Like Me

No story – well, there’s always a story! But tonight I just thought of National Poetry Writing Month and this is what came out, thank the gods of creativity and whoever was brilliant and kind enough to put WordPress into being!

Authentic, Like Me

One point over the line of demarcation
between myself and “clinical depression”
they say
it’s all in my head
they don’t understand
it’s not my head that’s the problem – I don’t
listen to it anymore — It just keeps churning over
the same old pictures and words
like some Hollywood movies that claim to be “new.”
How many are lifted right off the reels

of old classics
of the first celluloid flammable films…
and books, ha! They forget
that some of us still remember
books, luscious and dusty but still
as new to my mind as to the author
who penned it by quill or pencil, by manual which
begat electric, electric that begat “selectric”
with its pounding, whirling ball of
letters, numbers, symbols, and signs.

They forget that we remember the old, old tomes,
volumes of poems, covered in linen or leather –
so, when we see the “new” movies,
hear the newest songs
and read the latest pre-fabricated plots
designed to make obsolete
the sublime joy
of thumbing through
the delicate parchment pages
of an authentic dictionary –

well, I just wonder
how a one-sheet questionnaire
knows anything of my mind
my heart
or the words I have yet to reveal,
words that are real, unique – authentic,
like me
like the Muse who inspires
and Spirit who sends the lines
spiraling down my spine

just waiting, waiting for me to type
write sing dance depression be damned
slam them into being?

Postscript: Thank you, magic banyan tree,
my favorite of the three,
for the gift of a Ticonderoga #2 pencil
you left for me (yellow, of course,
and sharpened, almost new)
years after I’d written a poem
or two
or twenty pages of
streaming sobbing laughing lines
while sitting between your roots;

after sitting on the ground
was no longer an option.
But you and your sisters knew this:
authentic, earnest, soul-digging words,
like me,
like trees,
like magic,
will never ever give up
and never, ever die.

Lady Diane Randall