Musings
I’ve come to poetry as a visual artist and keen observer of the nature of things and things of nature.
What Can You Do With Insomnia was chosen for publication in the 2023 Mountain Troubadour
What Can You Do With Insomnia
Your least favorite child
keeping you up at night
Stealing quiet darkness
when your mind finally rests
finally untangles itself from the gnarled
skein of the day
Thoughtless child assuming
ceiling stares and shadow pacing
warrant precious midnight hours
hours meant for body’s repair and replenishment
for slumbering to the sound of crickets
What Can You Do With Insomnia
Your least favorite child
keeping you up at night
Stealing quiet darkness
when your mind finally rests
finally untangles itself from the gnarled
skein of the day
Thoughtless child assuming
ceiling stares and shadow pacing
warrant precious midnight hours
hours meant for body’s repair and replenishment
for slumbering to the sound of crickets
Ancestors has been accepted by Monadnock Underground (June 2022)
Ancestors
I'm pretty sure I was born from a river
from cool waters so clear
that one can see caddisflys building their homes,
and trout nosing between stones for food
My lineage runs freely over rocks and falls
taking stories downstream
wrapping tales around the ankles of fishermen
I feel my fluvial ancestry
a map of rivers flowing
deep in my veins
Ancestors
I'm pretty sure I was born from a river
from cool waters so clear
that one can see caddisflys building their homes,
and trout nosing between stones for food
My lineage runs freely over rocks and falls
taking stories downstream
wrapping tales around the ankles of fishermen
I feel my fluvial ancestry
a map of rivers flowing
deep in my veins
My poem from the Troubadour was featured in the WDEV radio interview
with Poetry Society of Vermont.
Fast forward video to 1:23:44
with Poetry Society of Vermont.
Fast forward video to 1:23:44
... and here it is in the printed copy of June 2022
Look for my poem at Alla Vita on State Street for Montpelier's Poem City in April
Meandering
I was distracted by a bird
its song cut through a poem
taking shape under my tongue
something about nothing in particular
became Spring reflections
in a pool at my feet
I surrendered to wings that sprouted
from overburdened shoulders
and looked to the clouds for repose
Meandering
I was distracted by a bird
its song cut through a poem
taking shape under my tongue
something about nothing in particular
became Spring reflections
in a pool at my feet
I surrendered to wings that sprouted
from overburdened shoulders
and looked to the clouds for repose
I received a monetary Marian Gleason Memorial prize and Certificate of Merit
from the Poetry Society of Vermont for my poem "Sunday Sermon in January."
Sunday Sermon in January
The heavens deliver their missives
on the backs of snowflakes
a million proverbs alighting
on the outstretched arms of maples
the weight of their meaning
almost too much to bear
Blue Jay pauses on a pine bough
for a fleeting moment of truth
a flash of blue in this ghostly snowscape
enough to startle one into oblivion
Words of wisdom
forming a tome
the size of an open field
Wide open spaces
for me to read between the lines
from the Poetry Society of Vermont for my poem "Sunday Sermon in January."
Sunday Sermon in January
The heavens deliver their missives
on the backs of snowflakes
a million proverbs alighting
on the outstretched arms of maples
the weight of their meaning
almost too much to bear
Blue Jay pauses on a pine bough
for a fleeting moment of truth
a flash of blue in this ghostly snowscape
enough to startle one into oblivion
Words of wisdom
forming a tome
the size of an open field
Wide open spaces
for me to read between the lines
Three poems published in "Across the Margin", October 2021
morning | path | broken
Broken is how she felt when she awoke
a cloudy morning following an equally dark night
nocturnal demons determined to steal her breath
old meddlers outstaying their visit
wreaking havoc on the path laid before her
a long road she has trod and sown and carved
redirected lost and found again
a journey back to her self
the one who’s wings were never clipped
who smiled easily and loved deeply
that’s who she longed to wake to this morning
instead her spirit lay in fragments beside her pillow
• • •
On this summer morning
dripping with the oppressive sweat
of lastnight’s dreams she awakens
to songs of chickadee and cardinal
lilting melodies carving the thick air
laying before her a path to a new day
Through broken fragments she finds
her way to the open door
• • •
The morning is broken
by a thought that occurs to her
as she makes her way to the compost pile
A path strewn with squirrels’ playthings
with artifacts later collected by robins
to form vessels of hope
She thinks what if the past was never mine
# # #
Dear Morning
I'm so happy to see you after an arduous journey of doubt
# # #
Upon Waking
Cicadas sound their whining buzz
catching the cool breeze coming
through the screen door
spreading a thin blanket of remembering over me
I search myself for leftover shrapnel
from elapsed panic attacks
but all I find is slow breathing
and skin constructed of light
Wonder has replaced doubt
Tranquility has broken from a shell of fear
The intention of my ears is to hear god
in the language of cicadas and in this moment
I’m helpless to do anything else
morning | path | broken
Broken is how she felt when she awoke
a cloudy morning following an equally dark night
nocturnal demons determined to steal her breath
old meddlers outstaying their visit
wreaking havoc on the path laid before her
a long road she has trod and sown and carved
redirected lost and found again
a journey back to her self
the one who’s wings were never clipped
who smiled easily and loved deeply
that’s who she longed to wake to this morning
instead her spirit lay in fragments beside her pillow
• • •
On this summer morning
dripping with the oppressive sweat
of lastnight’s dreams she awakens
to songs of chickadee and cardinal
lilting melodies carving the thick air
laying before her a path to a new day
Through broken fragments she finds
her way to the open door
• • •
The morning is broken
by a thought that occurs to her
as she makes her way to the compost pile
A path strewn with squirrels’ playthings
with artifacts later collected by robins
to form vessels of hope
She thinks what if the past was never mine
# # #
Dear Morning
I'm so happy to see you after an arduous journey of doubt
# # #
Upon Waking
Cicadas sound their whining buzz
catching the cool breeze coming
through the screen door
spreading a thin blanket of remembering over me
I search myself for leftover shrapnel
from elapsed panic attacks
but all I find is slow breathing
and skin constructed of light
Wonder has replaced doubt
Tranquility has broken from a shell of fear
The intention of my ears is to hear god
in the language of cicadas and in this moment
I’m helpless to do anything else
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Two poems on the theme of Snow published in Periwinkle Literary Magazine, January 2021
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To enjoy my first chapbook, Being Here, Images in Words, email: LilyHinrichsen at gmail dot com
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Excerpts from Being Here:
Shortcut skirting the truth she took a path through the woods tripping over knobby roots the musky smell of wet leaves filling her head with the whimsy of childhood games fantasy worlds built in apricot trees and the tall grasses of meadows the woods hid her thoughts kept her utterances secret among the maples and pines she struck an oath to never fear life |
I listen to the darkness as it makes its trek from East to West spilling constellations from its pockets in its haste. The creatures of the night follow in its footsteps chirping from the tall grasses it brushed by. They are just waking, happy to assume their nocturnal duties, even as I close the book on mine.
# # # Morning Blades of grass each bejeweled with beads of morning dew a carpet of luminescence as far as the eye can see. This is my gift for rising with the summer sun. |
Stitched Poems
