Angele Toomey Poetry

No doubt you have noticed that I’ve been absent from the blogosphere for the last 6 weeks or so. I needed to take a break, recalibrate some things, and overcome a sudden loss of words.

Every time I thought about writing I would feel a tightness in my stomach that overrode my ability to hold a pen. Although my brain was crowded with thoughts, none of them stooped to form themselves into words.

It’s been a time of intensive reflection and questioning – is there any point in writing and performing? What is recognition? Is external validation why I am putting myself ‘out there’? What would happen if I just stopped – put down the pen and walked away?

Spoiler alert: I don’t have any answers, except to say that the words are slowly returning and the thought of writing is less likely to trigger a dry retching response.

There can be no promise of the quantity or quality of my work, but I do know that the words are my precious friends, and I hope that they will forgive me and return home.

Passing by
The optical illusion of
solidity is a trap for novice players.
The road gives way to a stream
that flows freely under a bridge to nowhere.
Through misty rain
glimpses of retired farm
equipment catches my eye,
tears of rust running into overgrown grass.
Wooden fences lean into
their final resting place.
Folks don't come by here much anymore.
They are either tourists with a 
malfunctioning GPS
or are the sort of people 
who spend their weekends
on old trains exploring 
almost forgotten stretches of line.
They glimpse backcountry villages
whose names are heavy with
history but not anchored
in our memories.
Eventually the fragile threads 
of iron and wood
will melt away, leaving behind
suggestions of what might have been
home.