poetry, Poetry Month, poets

Poetry Love

Writing poetry-gettyimages.com
Writing poetry-gettyimages.com


Many of you know that April is National Poetry Month. It’s a ‘newbie’ month, at only 18 years old.

Everywhere I turn there’s a ‘challenge’ of some kind: Poem A Day, NaPoWriMo, Poetic Form Challenge…okay, I’ll stop now.

There’s even a Poem in a Pocket Day on April 24th.

This one looks like a lot of fun and a good way for the single men to meet women and single women to meet men (Poem in a Purse?).

I’m such a newbie poet that I can’t (don’t) want the PAD or NPWM tests.

But, what  I am challenging myself to do is one or two poems every Wednesday. I can do that.

Besides writing one of my own poems, I’ll post one that has caught my eye from either a poetry book I own or one I see from the poets I follow. Sometimes I’ll have three poems up.

Also, I’m single, so maybe I can get the nerve to participate in Poem in a Pocket Day. Oh, darn, I just remembered that is the day I fly to Albuquerque, New Mexico for the Gathering of Nations Pow Wow.

Well, men in the airport terminal, on the plane, and at the hotel beware of the poem in my pocket or purse.

So now on to a poem I wrote last month.

Arrow to the heart-gettyimages
Arrow to the heart-gettyimages


Pierced Heart


We hold on,

fill our heart with stuff,

pack and stack every hurtful

incident, innuendo,

pain never erased,

never forgiven,

only stored

down in the depths

until we escavate

buried un-treasure

for rocks and arrows,

which find their way back

to our heart


Mona AlvaradoFrazier©


My favorite poem, for this week, is from Sabra Bowers of Later, Miss Slater.

She participates in the Sunday Whirl, a challenge which gives 12 words as prompts that a poet turns into a poem.



she leaves honeysuckle to weave
its tangles around forsythia branches
knowing the fragrance soothes her southern soul

with scented memories of a long-ago girl
who pulled wild honeysuckle blooms 
and sucked their sweetness


Sabra’s poem is lovely. Take a look at her other Sunday Whirl poems. I wonder if I can call my Wednesday posts, Wednesday Whirls? POW’s? (Poems on Wednesdays)…okay, I’ll stop now.






Encouragement, Forgiveness, Inspiration, poetry, Wisdom

A Promise To Myself

I Heart Me-gettyimages.com
I Heart Me-gettyimages.com

Most of the time.

When I make a mistake, that hurts someone, I remind myself that I need to make restitution.

Restitution is made by first apologizing, second by listening to the person when he or she explains how they feel, and then making it up to this person with a gesture. This is also the case for when I do some action that hurts myself, like a mistake I made or an opportunity I didn’t use.

It’s easy when there is a ‘good’ result, like when the apology is accepted or I forgive myself and move forward without regret.

But when an apology is not accepted, I have to remind myself-more than once-to let my expectation go, of how I want the other person to respond. Sometimes, I end up not loving me so much. I play that game of blaming myself, or the other person (It’s his/her issue), or excuse my behavior. Problem is that this deception shows up somewhere. Usually it’s in one of the loads we call “baggage.”

There is also a time to disengage. If you acknowledged what you did, apologized and tried to make up for hurting someone, or forgive yourself, then there is little more you can do except practice ‘self-love.’

This topic is beautifully illustrated by the wisdom in this poem by Sabra Bowers. She, like me, started the new year with creating an intention. My word is “Move.”  Her word is “Purge.”

After reading her poem it made me think all the stuff we carry with us, consciously or not. Her poem reminded me to go through my ‘baggage,’ throw stuff out, and move forward.

Broken Promise

self-love is letting go
of broken promises

promises I’ve made
and ones made to me

promises made with good intention
and ones made with no intention

broken promises are 
yesterday’s news

Written by,

Sabra Bowers

You can visit Sabra’s blog at Later, Ms. Slater.