Friday, September 2, 2011


It has taken me awhile to post this.  I wrote a poem, and it honestly kind of embarrasses me.  First, I don't really write poems.  I'm not a poet.  Second, it rhymes, and I don't think poems are really supposed to actually rhyme anymore.  Plus, it's kind of sing-songy, which I know is worse.  Plus, it's a poem on whimsy, and I'm pretty sure a poem on whimsy should be fanciful enough that it wouldn't want to rhyme.  Finally, I used a very cute whimsical font when I wrote the poem, and Blogger, which apparently does not value whimsy, translated that font into tragically unfanciful letters. 

But I'm sharing my rhyming, sing-songy fabrication of a poem here anyway, because I have this notion that sticking my neck and risking the fact that you might want to chop off the head that spewed forth this poem might be good for me.  It might make me more whimsical or something. 

Actually, the poem came about partly because I sit upstairs in my attic for 30 minutes every day in blessed solitude, and I feel like I need to churn out something (anything!) to justify real-live time alone, and it also came about because someone I respect very much told me she thought I was whimsical.  And this very non-whimsical-feeling-stressed-out-Type-A-perfectionist nearly leapt out of her chair and tackled the poor woman with a giant, quite possibly unwhimsical, hug.  Whimsical, I repeated to myself.  She thinks I'm whimsical.  So instead of sitting up in my attic daydreaming about myself as whimsical, I wrote about what whimsical feels like to me...should I someday actually achieve whimsy.  (And really, those last two words seriously damage my chances of every truly being whimsical.  "Achieve" and "whimsy" should not link together in the same sentence.  Ah well.  A girl, even one who feels as non-whimsical as myself, can dream.)


Whimsy is a flowing dress
a scent
dark hair blue eyes.

Whimsy sits out on the deck
sips wine
no mask no guise

Whimsy loves to sing and dance
is free
voice, body fly.

Whimsy and creative meet
join hands
reach, brush the sky.

Whimsy loves to garden
dirt between her toes

Whimsy loves with passion
like poetic prose

Whimsy walks in beauty
with grace
in her beautiful mess

Whimsy walks in peace
in hope

that her life will bless.


  1. Well, I think this is a very good poem! I wish I'd written it! And I'd like to think I can tell. I could so hear the tension in your beginning paragraphs, too -- the strangling self-consciousness that plagues me, too -- and the hope and truth that you are free as well, or you wouldn't be whimsical. :)

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