Writing is a calling from a deeper place than my undisciplined mind can fathom. I cherish life so I pay attention to it. My writing has spiritual overtones because I believe that spirit is the biggest part of creation. There is more mystery in the unseen and it delights me to explore things that can’t be understood with intellect alone. I know that a part of me loves the theatrics of the spoken word but most of my joy comes from the satisfaction of completion. I start with a seed of thought. When all the components, the lyricism, the word play, the images, come together into a completed work, I feel a sense of accomplishment. I am delighted. Now, if others are delighted by what I have written, then that’s just lagniappe.
It has taken an extraordinarily
Long time to come to this harvest.
Pulling plow through timeless alluvial soil
Once rocky and frozen with resistance.
Encouraging worms and discouraging slugs
Laboring for fertile ground.
To nurture this soul’s harvest
I have been busy bending nature.
Planting love seeds and tending experiential fields,
From this bounty I now harvest.
I choose carefully the most delicious fruit
Not because I am deserving of this ambrosia
But because I am the author of it.
This wisdom did not come to me by chance
But certainly by thoughtful design.
© 2015 Bessie Adams Senette
Wendi Romero, Photo: Fiddle Fern
Photo by Carole Lancon
As a child, my favorite time of the year was fall especially the first cool, windy day usually occurring in late September. I would sit watching with my gooseflesh legs dangling from a thick branch as the wind blew the mature cane sideways until it almost laid flat. The air felt crisp, almost electrically charged and the smell was fresh with a promising harvest. Later, when the cut cane lay across the rows, sometime in the early morning, before I climbed up into my viewing tree, someone would set the fields on fire to burn off the leafy chaff. The combination of burning grass and cooking molasses is about as sweet a smell as I can remember.
Excerpt: ” Cutting the Clouds, a bayou mystic’s poems, musings, and imaginings”
Forgotten in the cocktail glass
For want of more vodka
His hawkish ways devoid of compassion for
Those standing on the head of a pin
For want of balance
This binary code world
Calculating risk and profit, wired for failure
For want of success
Bellowing bureaucrats, liars
Beguiling weary souls bereft of wonder
For want of justice
Falling angels, grace abandoned,
Spiral into abysmal longing
For want of wings
Forget compassion’s failure.
Be present only to this moment
For want of loss innocence © 2015 Bessie Adams Senette
The universal theme of a falling dream …
Do I wake in terror unwilling to face the outcome?
Do I persevere and see where I will land?
Do I breakthrough to another theme of flying?
Excerpt from ” Cutting the Clouds, a bayou mystic’s poems, musings and imaginings:”
The Head of a Pin
Standing on the head of a pin
Waiting for the wind to
Send me into the abyss.
I miss those days when
Caring meant sharing love,
Not spending it like coins
Slammed into a slot
On a wish and a prayer.
Not knowing when or if
The investment will see a return.
Is not for you
Or even about you
But without you
How will I remember
While standing on this pin,
How to trust again?
Only a fool forgets the wind.
A bigger fool still,
Forgets she has wings to fly.
© 2015 Bessie Adams Senette