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Poetry

Poems I have written.

Poetry

Sword and Shield

by Sigrid E. Mortensen

© 2023

I resist the raining blows

That pound me

Pound me

Pound me

Ever harder

Falling relentless on neck and back

Working to forge my metal

Into sword and shield.


I recoil from oven’s glow

Coals angry red

Surging ever hotter to inflame me

Render me malleable to the blacksmith’s hammer

Force me

Force me

Force me

Into tapered edge

And stronger

Heavier mantle.


I refuse to run

Headlong

Into the throng of battle

To slice my way to the top

Or raise protective armor 

Between perceived attack

And fragile ego.


Twist me

Instead

Into blades of a plow

So I can turn hard earth

Soft and yielding.

Let me contribute to the pillowing

Of infant seeds

So they may warm

And swell

And stretch

And thrust forth from the ground

Erupt into nourishment

And the sweet fragrance

Of gentle

Blooming

Flowers.

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Poetry

Invitation

By Sigrid E. Mortensen

© 2023


I invite the Self That I Am

To climb down the staircase from my mind

And peer out the windows of my eyes.


I invite the Self That I Am

To sink deep into this body

To feel the weight of it

The truth of it

Pressed against this chair.


I invite the Self That I Am 

To turn its attention 

Gently 

Away from words once spoken

And words yet to speak

And listen instead

To the sounds in the air that breathes me.


The Self That I Am

Yearns to experience Life

Real Life, not

Life Imagined or

Life Remembered

But Life as it is Lived in the Now.


I invite the Self That I Am

To feel this pen in my fingers

And this paper

Smooth

Beneath my hand

And the ever present Joy of this

One moment

That strings like a pearl to the next

And the next

Each uniquely shimmering

Distinct from the one that precedes it

Or the one to follow

But none less achingly beautiful.


The more I issue the invitation

The more it is accepted

The more the worries

And the regrets

Fall away

And I am left with

Giddy gratitude for the

Perfection

Of What Is.

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Poetry

Victimhood

by Sigrid E. Mortensen

© 2023

I am not a victim

Of childhoods past

Of insults hurled in my direction

Or thorns of criticism

Lodged deep beneath my skin.


I am not a victim

Of a body I don’t understand

Whose care manual seems to have been

Lost 

In the post

Whose needs are expressed

In only the vaguest terms

That compete

And conflict

And vie for attention.


I am not a victim

Of the wiring of my brain

Whose focus seems arbitrary

Whimsical

Capricious

And then locks with fierce determination

On the pettiest of things.


I am not a victim because

I own my past

My body

My brain.

I marvel at what they have taught me.

I swim in the pleasures they bring:

Sweet memories of fun

And laughter

And silly games;

Indulgent surrender to tastes

And scents

And touch;

Intricate connections

Of ideas

And knowledge

And inspirations.


Sometimes I feel tossed in waves

Tumbled head over heel

Disoriented 

Drinking salt water

Wondering up from down until

Scraped by sandy sea floor.


But those crests are there for me to ride.

They pick me up

Take me with them in full

Participation

To feel that icy wind peeling past wet skin and

Tangling in wet hair in

Joyous

Abandon

To feel the rumble of power underfoot

To breathe deeply ocean air

To inhale the view of beach and tide

From oh, such lofty height.


So, I shall lay aside my belief

In victimhood

Set it on my bedside table

Near enough that I can pick it up

Whenever I see fit

And for now

I will sally forth without its noose around my neck

Free in my new

Acknowledgment 

Of my own

Vast

Power.

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Poetry

Gifts

by Sigrid E. Mortensen

© 2023

Imagine

If you will

That you are a child on Christmas morning.

You rush to the tree, as sleep still clings to your eyes,

And breathe a gasp of excitement

With a blink

Amazed

At your 

Abundant

Pile of gifts

Wrapped in shiny paper

Each bearing your name

Each the promise of delights yet to come.


Image

Then

That mere moments later,

Your beloved friend stumbles into the room behind you

Just seconds after you have noticed

That his pile is smaller than yours,

The sizes of his boxes mere fractions yours

His total number fewer.


At that moment

You stand at the crossroad of two paths.

Hurriedly, you choose one.

Instinctively,

And out of love for your friend,

You shove your gifts behind you

Hide them in the shadows

So he cannot feel envy toward the 

Unfairness, the

Inequity

Of your two piles.


He, too, is delighted 

At first

That he has gifts

Then just as quickly thinks

But only because you have hidden them

That you have none.

Out of his love for you

He hides also

His gifts.

And although you know better

Because you have seen them,

He lies

A sweet lie

And tells you he has no gifts.


“Let us go play in the dirt together,”

He suggests.

And because you love him,

You follow him outside.

You can’t make much out of the dirt.

It is dry

And dusty

And doesn’t hold its shape

And even though you both know that just inside

Is a grand pile of hidden treasures

You both reason that it is better 

That you both have nothing

Than for one to have more gifts

When the other has few

Or none.


Back in the room

The Gift Giver sits

A tear slowly tracing down her cheek.

She had so anticipated that each of you would

Open your gifts

That each of you would

Squeal with excitement

Over treasures chosen

Especially for you

Gifts labored over 

Pondered

Sought out

Brought home

And lovingly wrapped.

She weeps at the quiet tragedy

Of gifts left

Unopened.


Imagine, now

Instead

That you had chosen the other path

And when your friend trailed behind you into the room

And spotted his bounty

You smiled with him.

You encouraged him to tear open his gifts

And he watched with shared pleasure as you opened yours

And you both delighted in each other’s good fortune.


And you noticed that

Although his gifts were smaller

And fewer than yours

Each was powerful

And suited perfectly to him.


And yours were plentiful because each was intended

To work with the others

In a way 

Only you 

Could combine

To create something beautiful with all of them.


He would not have wanted your gifts

And you would not have wanted his

But together, oh! What you can create!

Once unwrapped, your gifts can help you make something 

Wonderful 

To share with your friend.

And he can make from his something

Wonderful

To share with you.


And the Gift Giver sits back and smiles

Filled with a heart overflowing

Satisfied

That she knows you both so well

That she has given each of you

The perfect gifts

To share with each other.


To share with the world.

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Poetry

Quaker Quiet

by Sigrid E. Mortensen 

© 2023

Quaker.

Quiet.

Simply silence

Listening, rapt.

Held in Light.

Wrapped

In the loving embrace

Of community.


I double it over

Crease it

Tuck it into the pocket of my heart

Draw it out at home

Unfold it

Revisit it in 

Daily

Practice:

Opening

Softening

Receiving, the

Voice, the

Wisdom, the

Guidance from the Godhead.


The Joy is in the 

Seeking, the

Asking, the

Reading, the

Endless Quest to fit

Words to the 

Ineffable.

Like tunes from programmed meetings

That tease me in my dreams

And only upon awakening: the lyrics

Remembered

A message

Strong, yet subtle.


I am infused

Imbued

Illuminated.

Lit from within.

Radiating

Outward.

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Poetry

Combination

By Sigrid E. Mortensen

© 2023

When the dial glides easily

With a flick of the fingers….


When it spins just the right amount

With smooth, quiet ticks

In just the right direction

To land on the perfect

Destination

Numbers only now remembered….


When barrels tumble

And give

And yield,

And metal clicks

And sighs,

And with a satisfying clunk

The lock falls open

Heavy and cold

In the palm of your hand

And you stare at it

As startled at it is

That it surrendered ground so quickly….


When you can slide that crooked shaft

Soundlessly from its rusty latch

And the heavy door 

Held shut for years

Opens with a whisper….


When sunlight streams through the opening

Motes dancing on beams

And blinds your face with warmth

And recognition….


When all resistance falls away,

When muscles long held tense

For reasons you can no longer quite recall

Melt into acceptance….


When you know

Without a solitary doubt

That you never had a reason to fear

Or worry

Or fret….


When you remember,

“Oh, yes!

This is how I let go!

And this is what it feels like to

Invite those shy gremlins of fun

And play

And joy

To peek from behind the corner

And run into my world

Skipping

And scrambling

And giggling,

Glad to be a part of my game….”


It is in these moments

That you free yourself from the barriers that

Only you

Could have placed on the gates

Keeping you safe from

Who 

Knows what?


It is then that you remember

Who you are

And why you’re here

And all you have to offer.


It is then that you unlock

The full potential

Of your creative

Genius

And bask in the

Openness

Of your 

Unguarded

Heart.

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Poetry

Followers

by Sigrid E. Mortensen

© 2023

We have followers

Each one of us

A haunting chant that lingers through the day.


We have followers

Admirers, true

Who care deeply what we think

And say.


Ancestral lines

Braid threads behind us

Weaving love to wrap around us

Whispering hopes into our ears

And bold ideas that lift 

And guide us

Encouragements to stay our fears.


We have friends

Whose feet have not

Trod this sod in lifetimes

Yet whose keen attention marks

The passing of each hour

As closely as our very breath.


We have likes

And friends

And fans

Whose love with ours entwines

Whose light could not be 

Snuffed

Extinguished even

Yet

By bodily death.


Our followers require of us 

No thing

No posts

No tweets

No messaging.


They want

Just

The occasional nod

To quiet ghosts

A seeing

Knowing

Recognition

Of their active being.


“Notice us

Our love

Our sweetness.

Feel etherial kisses

Eternal caresses 

Brushed oh

So gently

Softly 

Upon your 

Beloved cheek.”

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Poetry

If you Prick Me

by Sigrid E. Mortensen

© 2023

If you prick me

I bleed words

Words that drip

And trickle

And pool

Into patterns on paper

Patterns that have meaning

Patterns like ink blots

Patterns for those who see more in ink blots

Than ink blots.


If you prick me

I bleed truth

Not a Universal Truth

Perhaps

That can be transfused into every soul

But one that can save a spirit or two

If his type is a match

To mine.


If you cut me and the wounds are deep

I may apply a tourniquet

That stems the bleeding.


But a prick

A small prick

Barely noticed in my busy life

Rises in a bead

During quiet moments

And flows like ink

Onto an empty page.

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by Sigrid E. Mortensen

© 2023

Why should I feel guilty

For the color of my skin?


I was not there

When the Black Man was stolen from his home.


It was not I who lashed his wrists to oars, or

Whipped his back until bloody

As he rowed himself to terrifying servitude.


It was not I who sold him on the block like cattle,

Tore him from mother

From wife

From father

From child.


It was not I who placed him behind the plow

And beat him into submission

Until he toiled for me.


It was not I who pursued him if he ran

Then thrust him back into chains.


I should not feel shame for the color of my skin.


And neither should he.


That I rarely do

And he often does

Is a measure of imbalance.


That I am comfortable in my legacy of prosperity

And he wrestles to survive

Is a measure of imbalance.


Until balance is restored,

Until black mothers perish in childbirth

No more often than their white counterparts,

Until opportunities are as rich for one

As they are for another,

I will not feel shame,

But take action

With my voice

With my vote

With my compassion

With my seeing.


I will see the truth.

I will see the struggle.

I will see the struggles

Of those whose skin

Is a different color

From mine.

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Poetry

Let’s Pretend

by Sigrid E. Mortensen © 2023

Let’s pretend!

Let’s pretend the we live in a world

Where everyone gets what they need

To survive

And to thrive.


Let’s pretend that we live in a world

Where love,

Where energy flows,

Fills the eddies in each of us

Swirls and delights

Tickles and teases

Until the currents continue on

To others.


Let’s pretend that we live in a world

Where work is play

And shoulds are wants

And inspiration clicks on

As easily as flicking a light switch.


Let’s pretend we live in a world

Of comfort

And ease

Where my gain

Is your gain

My win

Is your win, too.


Let’s pretend we live in a world

Where technology is indistinguishable 

From magic.

And magic is real.


In this world

Each of us is valued

And cherished

For the marvels that we are

And burdens are eased

Until they are no more.


Let us live in that world.

Let’s make the pretend

Real.

Let’s play in a world

Of wonder.

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