just sit down and write it out they say and i note that i am not alone
as i finish reading the works of an old writer in APR
one who is writing about
losing his words too while he worries that his mind may
soon be next to follow
i read his small case poems, yet
cringe as i note his herb caen dot dot dot style only to observe while genuflecting to his knack
for elderly genius and note that its not my own private rocky road to travel that has
immersed me in this vat of writer goo; sticky, weblike strands reach across to foreign lands and we
all struggle in its thick murky darkness and watch, helpless as it cuts us all, straight to the bone
trapped, mired in each cell, we all watch, fascinated at the blood-letting that is
shared as a small gift of relief when we become wordless…
here we are in empty rooms of quiet houses
gazing out the same windows at the leaves falling and the seasons shifting
while we all ask the same small favor of the elusive muse who keeps us waiting
lonely at our doors, wondering if solitaire is a better excuse than actually crafting a line
that won’t be called ‘bad poetry
but rather, a line worth reading, just one that makes an emotion creep up and tickle
us to tears, to laughter, to thought or a simple nod of our weary heads
or a fleeting reminder of something we once experienced
as aging, as longing to set down in shadows or calm blue waters…
again, we wait, noting the chill in the autumn air
noting the shape of one particular leaf taking its solo flight without its compadres…
as it moves toward the earth to join with the others on this hardened summertime ground
lying below as i gaze out this window
it disturbs nothing, demanding no truth or justice in its flight
judged by no one in its descent…
saluting the end of its time
i bend to bow low and honor the muse-less poet
as we all drift, searching out our words
falling without them to the earth below
in us all
You did it! Absolutely beautiful….