Poems are Entities

Photo Courtesy of Pauline DeForest

Poems are entities: they come directly from the world of the spirit. When I write poetry, a door way opens and the words flood through. I am very careful not to interfere in the process. A long time ago I tried to “write” poems. Poems were the first form of writing I tried my hand at. But until I can allow that doorway to open and touch that center from which all things flow, my efforts seem rough, and difficult.

When I can be in that presence: then the music flows. I suspect it is the same for all art, but for poetry, there is a special surrender, a giving-up to something more uniquely creative.

I do not judge or evaluate a piece, and use the most minor touches of editing. I give them to you now as they were born to me.



© Nick Grimshawe

The after glow has come and gone,
There is just the silence now:
The silence of in-drawn breath,
A heart still racing slows.
Skin to skin we touch,
Where warmth reminds of sunlight,
Precious life, and love.

Truly Care

© Nick Grimshawe

My heart was meant to Dance,
Under the Living Sky,
To frolic here,
Learn to truly love,
and truly care

The Kingdoms of Sand

© Nick Grimshawe

The sea grass grows in tuffs upon the hillocks of sand,
by the water’s edge.
The long green spears gritted with sand,
eternally bend to the on shore breeze.

Eyes cast against the blows of sand,
survey the long sweep of the shore line.
Then squinting in the sunlight seeks the horizon.
Was the sea our Eden from which we were cast out to the shore,
And left to grow legs, and arms, and lungs?

The surf rolls in with much clashing and clattering and moaning,
one soldier wave upon another marching in the eternal tide of life.
Hair whips across the face stinging tearing eyes.
The gulls’ cries hearkened down the alley ways of air,
And a seashell washes up to rub against cold toes.

White caps dancing at yearning distances,
Call out the stories of heartache and woe, of love and joy,
all submerged in a wavering world of blue,
Which caress the heart in all of it places
and calls forth the sanctity of human touch:
hand to hand, arm to arm, hip to hip,
Sadly knowing you are not One,
“But you are” says the whispering sand,
Slithering over the hillocks past the sea grass to where you stand.


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