Biography of Charlotte Ballard
Writing is the journey.
Charlotte Ballard's Works:
Her Highness the Radiant Dyke Deborah from Canada
Charlotte Ballard Poems
My Only Song
Man of Sorrow Man of Pain You took it all Without any gain.
To Emily Dickinson
Emily, your words breathe fire. From simple words to grand designs- Heaven drops, sweet nectar. I propose a promise
I don't have much That I can claim- Just an old brush With half the bristles gone,
A Mother's Day Poem
My mother keeps a poem That I wrote when I was More than a child, but Not yet a Woman.
Just now, Michael spoke Not from courage Nor from hope. 'I'm dying, ' he says
Writer In Training
I work the books As if knowing the Words could somehow Translate into
You Come Too
You Come Too I'm going to write a poem now, a little thing- Not much to it. A line, a verse, a meter
Taps are being played In the middle of me To say good-bye To that part that
Ode To Pizza
You delight the nose with evocative Promise of stringy cheese, pepperoni And tomato sauce warm. Each piece Contested over, grabbed, hungered over
I Never Had A Mother
I never had a mother Who read “Hello Moon” Fifty-seven times before Tossing it behind the refrigerator
(inspired by Stubborn Students) Locked doors Closed windows
I love jelly babies Prepared with fat Sage and garlic Just right for a snack.
My Lying Fault
That a child mixed a broken breed Purposely denied her own fault In it. I did not cry wolf out to My Lagging defenders, nor know that
I watch as a slim Young man, dressed in Tweeds and patches on the Elbows, squats down with a handful of
A Second Beginning
A second beginning
Arcs strong like
A summer storm
Homing in an a pattern
Stirred into being
A century ago.
A breath gone, duplicated.
It expands, filling the space
Of a form already known.