Photo courtesy of the marvelous land of Costa Rica-a place time seems to have nearly forgotten

Going back through some previous years of writing poetry and journals, I ran across this piece which I wanted to share with you.

It is from what I refer to the as the “passion years”.  Now do not mistake that passion no longer exists for me. It is simply no longer the ruler of my steps or decisions as it once was.  There are many passions we can know in this illusion of living; and all will provide some form of satisfaction to the one experiencing them.  Passion for life, for our craft, for our job, our country, our family-all wonderful emotions, as long as our passions do not override our sensibilities.

The passion I speak of here you will recognize. It is the first arrival at the party of newly awakened attraction.  It is that demon which haunts every moment that we breathe once it has been nudged into being.  The very thing which gives you life when you are with the object of your desire, but which turns to desolate longing when you are apart.  Tormentor of souls, wounder of hearts and granter of wishes, Passion is what reminds us that we are alive.  Better to break it like a wild horse in time, if you do not wish to be trodden beneath its less than empathetic hooves.



The Woods

by Cheryl Pennington

Somewhere, deep in a dark wood, lies a thicket of cool grass and leaves,

spreading beneath the branches of an ancient oak, limbs bent and clutching the silent air.

I trace the lines in the thick bark with my fingertips;

it feels so strong; its vibration thumping beneath my touch.

Gentle breezes blow across my face, caresses soft and cool-

but warm!

It is you, your fingers touching my skin; and as rain to a parched land, I drink you in.

No words, only the deafening silence of the night-

the wind in the trees, the branches grasping-

your hands in my hair.

The eyes of the night looking down at me.

Paralyzed beneath your gaze, drawn into pools of blue

I am drowning.

The ground is cool and hard, leaves and branches scattered about.

White cotton leaves and denim branches, strewn carelessly.

The wind rushes in and out of the trees playfully,


lifting me to Heaven.

Somewhere an animal screams!

So close it seems….


33 thoughts on “Passion/Poetry

      1. Sincere “hearts” are overfilled with observation and sensory processing. They have only emotions to express what is inside them.

        Like tools in a box, they carefully choose the words they like; choosing those which do the best job of building thoughts and arousing emotions in others.

        You are one of those kinds of people…



  1. Wowwww! Another beautiful poem,I love it! 🙂
    I have been trying to write poetry for years,and wish I could write as beautifuly,as you can
    You take care there,stay well,safe,warm and happy!
    Catch you later! 🙂



      1. You are very welcme!
        We were warmer for a couple of days but cold again and another snow storm coming in for the weekend,up tp 8 inches and sub zero temps,burrrrrr,,,lol
        Take care catch you later!


      1. I had a journal as well. Do you still have it? I like to read my words again and remember that when. It is interesting to see how much I have grown but not changed the core of “me” in all these years. It is far easier for me to write in times of pain than joy. If I try to write about happy things it seems to sound contrived. In those times I think I’m just too busy enjoying it. 😀


      2. They’re all stored away back in my native land 🙂

        All this made me think of the one and only poem I’ve ever written! It must have been before 2008, we didn’t live here.

        Sometimes I bring it out, and try to hone it a little. It was so strange … I was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and listening to an interview with Bono on the radio. I have no idea what he was talking about, but all of a sudden this urge to write came over me. Dried my hands and pecked it down, quickly, on the keyboard, while it was still there.

        Haven’t experienced that ever before..


      3. That’s usually how it works for me. Something sparks an idea or emotion. Then the words come. I cannot usually do it if I just try to force it. I can recognize forced poetry. Mine often cone to me in those first few waking moments between asleep and awake. I suppose while I am still in “Neverland” 😉


  2. tropical mist
    dew dropped their skin
    nature joined in
    rolling in the jungle floor
    passion at play

    no matter where on the globe – the heat is rising.
    Cheryl, an excellent piece.
    thanks so for sharing with us…


    1. Thanks. I try to only write about things I know. My high school Creative Writing teacher always taught it was the best way for your work to be understood. I appreciate your reading my words.


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