“I, the moon.” …is this a poem?

And then sometimes, once all the pieces have fallen where they may, I am left with a deep set and desperate desire to come home, To that green, green grass. To that place where mountains touch the sky, And legs disappear amidst a sea of iridescent wildflower, Toes in the brown earth, mud by the…

The perilous slumber of day. A poem.

I tend to think poems are a bit pointless except as a form of expression for the writer, often voicing things they otherwise cannot. I don’t say that to degrade their value or beauty, mind, and I am certainly no poet! When I was younger, writing poetry was solelyΒ a form of catharsis, vomiting out painful…

Because reality is not quite true…

I have a habit of writing poetry when I am in-between confident creativity and writer’s block. When the words are flowing in a semi-conscious, formless state into pretty pictures on the page. This is one from 2007. Let me know your thoughts! Quite True. J R Manawa. 2007. What bends the trees? Who guides the…

Before my time

Delving into my poetic and darkly misspent youth (oh wait, I’m still there…!) a bit at the moment [inset laughing crying emoji], and I’m really enjoying re-reading and re-living the thoughts of my mind when I wrote these pieces….and maybe a bit of bone??? Yes. Before my time. J R Manawa. If I die before…

The crawling darkness

This is an old one. A poem wrote many dark nights ago (okay, years ago) and just for fun I thought it may like to see the light of day. Notably, it’s a darker take on a line by Wordsworth, inspired inΒ the first line I use.   The crawling darkness. JR Manawa. darkness falling from…