after a lifetime of doing almost nothing
but collecting words, now — here i am
finding that my life has become all about
that which cannot be expressed by words —
after a half-life of a burning desire to write
in order to find myself, suddenly i’ve found
an even more impassioned desire to write
by leaving that moulten shell behind, and
in this moment i find — silence is poetry
when the poet has nothing more to say
—Terri Guillemets
Who traipsed over
the typewriter keys
and left wordprints
in black & red ribbon?
—Terri Guillemets
i typed my tea
and drank my words
brewed every thought
ink whistled in the kettle
—Terri Guillemets
A poet swallows life and exhales painted words.
—Terri Guillemets
Springtime is a poet —
the blue sky its blank page
so vibrant green in rhyme
a different metre for every clime
birds chirping to keep the time
wildflowers yellow, red, purple divine
words dancing on tall blades of grasses
sparkling in the morning dews
no commas the flow keeps buzzing
vernal dashes & blossoming branches
on newly greening verdant trees
refrains whispering in each breeze
butterflies — floating apostrophes
ladybugs dot floral question marks
blissful bees stray stanza to stanza
seeds disperse from verse to verse
continuing a poem that’s never ended
and into summer’s colors is blended
—Terri Guillemets
the poet is a sensitive snail —
wandering along the path of life
leaving a glittering trail of words
—Terri Guillemets
An author can be just a writer, but a translator must always be a poet.
—Terri Guillemets