Tag Archives: poetry circle

Every Drop Counts

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In my studio, I’m immersed in the writer’s circle I discovered during the initial COVID lockdown. This group emerged as a beacon in the solitude, connecting me to a world beyond the confines where my husband, C.C., along with Beaumont the Sheepadoodle, and I huddled for safety against an unseen virus stalking the globe.

Three years on, the lockdowns have faded, but our circle endures. Despite occasional absences, like one poet last night, our bond remains unbroken. This circle is a treasure, a sacred time for writing. Sparked by the poems our circle priestess, Ali Grimshaw, of Flashlight Batteries shares, I welcome its invitation to simply let the words flow, effortlessly, without judgement or caveats or hesitation.

Last night, Ali introduced a poem by Kim Stafford, former Oregon state Poet Laureate. I’ve long admired Stafford’s profound and mystic style, reminiscent of the mystery of the cypress forests and exquisite beauty of his native Pacific Northwest. His words, both lyrical and relatable, woven with natural imagery and rich with personal and communal narratives, offer solace and a reminder of our interconnectedness.

The poem, “Advice from a Raindrop,” struck a chord. In it, Stafford writes:

Think you’re doomed to disappear,
just one small voice among millions?
That’s no weakness, trust me. That’s
your wild card, your trick, your
implement. They won’t see you coming

These lines fueled my free-fall writing, igniting thoughts about being more than just a drop in the ocean.

Every Drop Counts
by Louise Gallagher

Do you think
there are so many drops
in the ocean
swelling
into a wave
pummelling against the shore
that your drop will not be missed?

Think again my friend.

Your drop is felt
in the difference your bring to life
when you stop falling
into the belief
your drop doesn’t count.

No one can count the drops
of water in the ocean,
but every drop counts
to make the tide 

Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow.

My friend.
You are the drop. You
are the wave
of the ocean
swelling
and pummelling
against the shore.

Ebb and flow, Ebb and flow

My friend.
Every drop matters
your drop no more
no less.

May you know today, and everyday, the uniqueness of the difference you make in this world is needed, wanted and very precious. As are you. ❤

From The Poetry Circle

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We gathered, four of the six women who form the nucleus of this circle, a sacred bond birthed in the tentative days of lockdown. Ali Grimshaw, the poetic voice behind the blog, Flashlight Batteries, has been our unwavering compass, mentor, muse, and cherished confidante throughout these three transformative years of gathering, listening, writing, and sharing.

We hail from across North America. Me, the lone Canadian, in Alberta, the others scattered between Washington State and Alabama. In the quiet moments when one or two are absent, their absence echoes within the circle, a subtle but palpable void. Yet, even in our incompleteness, the muse unfailingly graces us with her nimble wordplay.

Last night, I reveled in the company of my fellow poetry voyagers, letting the words flow like a river unburdened by dams. Together, we wove the tapestry of our verses, sharing the stories that had been etched onto our pages.

Hand in motion, ink streaming, the pen glided across the page as if orchestrated by an invisible poetic symphony, a melody only discernible to my subconscious.

It was an experience, divinely restorative, freeing the spirit from its earthly confines, and fulfilling the soul’s deepest longing.

To those who feel the call of these poetic moments, if your heart yearns to connect its lyrical embrace with other poetic souls dancing, the invitation is open, it’s as delicate as the whisper of a muse’s sigh inviting you to release the words and let the words flow: If the call of poetry beckons to your soul, send me an email, and together, we shall weave verse into the tapestry of our lives.

The List That Will Never Be Written
by Louise Gallagher

There will never be a complete list
of all the moments and places
that have consumed my breath
with awe
just as there will never be
an ending
to love
or the illusion of the moon 
rising 
at dusk
or the life-giving cry
a newborn makes
upon leaving
the safety of the womb.

Why should there be?

In the capturing of every tiny moment
Awe escapes
leaving behind only the cold hard facts
of a life lived
without witness to 
the beauty
of a sunrise stealing
its breath away.

There will never be a complete list
of all the moments and places
that have consumed my breath
as long as I take notice
of the awe
that steals my breath away.

Today I Choose Me.

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I have been away. Mentally and physically.

The mental absence came first. Summer. Heat. Smoky skies. Long days. Short nights. They all intersected as I slipped into summer doldrums, taking leave of fingers skimming keyboard amidst my morning ritual of writing.

In summer’s lingering days, I return. Slowly.

Last night, in the writing circle I share with Ali Grimashaw and four other women poets, I wrote a poem I’ve titled, I Am Not Lost.

I was not lost to this space. I was somewhere else, living, breathing, being present, in all my messy liveliness. Warts. Bruises. Beauty and all.

Fashion blogger and new age spiritualist, Audrey Kitching writes, “Take a break and give your soul what it needs.”

I wonder if my break was my soul’s need or my critter mind’s desire?

Only I have the answer.

I choose to beleive my break was necessary. A needed rest from putting fingertips to keyboard and letting the words fall out.

Last night, I wrapped my fingers around a pen and let the words flow onto the lined pages of my poetry journal.

It felt…. soul-refreshing. reviving. Like I was pouring cool spring water down my throat at the end of a long journey across the desert.

Perhaps my break was the desert? Perhaps, my critter mind did have control, willing me to step away from doing what I know feeds my soul every morning.

I smile.

The mind is a facile place when questioned on its intentions.

Good, bad, indifferent – I get to choose how I label everything in my life.

Today, I choose labels that nourish and sustain me. Today, I choose labels that fill me up with possibility, hope, and the gift of being present within all that I bring to this moment, right now.

Today, I choose Me. Right here. Where I am..

I Am Not Lost.
©2023 Louise Gallagher

It’s called Kintsugi, she says
holding the round bowl towards me.

I savour it on my tongue,
press my lips against its smooth
delicious consonants and vowels.

Kintsugi, I breathe.

I cup the bowl in my hands,
my fingers etch the golden strands 
linking the broken shards of pottery.

Kintsugi, I whisper, pressing my lips against the word
holding it tight within my body.

You are not broken, she says. 
You are mended fragments of light
surrounding the broken spaces
where once you believed
you were lost.

You are not lost.
You are here, holding this bowl
that once was broken.

My hands cup its smooth surface.
I trace the cracks and feel the light
returning.

I am not broken.
I am not lost.
I am here.