words have left.
Please come back to me again tomorrow.
words have left.
Please come back to me again tomorrow.
i arise beginning the morning routine
brushing and showering away
bacterial colonies having sprung up during the night
greasing down the cracks and ashy skin
donning either pajamas or street clothes
it depends – maybe stepping out but probably staying in
slipping on worn out house shoes
shuffling across the floorboards
a short trip to the kitchen
a steaming morning cocktail needs preparing
i await its consumption, promising zest
to awaken this still sleep-filled mind
a push of the button on the blender
containing protein, vegetables and fruits
loudly swirls its nutrient-dense meal
the dishes in the sink beg for attention
my computer is more insistent
you’ll just have to wait
read, read, read – hundreds of emails needing attention
clack, clackity, clack – creativity is unleashed
write, send, await a response
project one – putting on additional deails
project two – just begun
project three – nah, let’s wait till tomorrow
i’m coming dishes and exercises
and other things i don’t want to do
what shall dinner be today
couch time, tv time, hubs time
catching up with gossip, whining and lovin’
getting satiated on food and drink
the hours always seem to pass too quickly
if only i had 24 times 2 hours in a day
then i see all that i’ve accomplished
… and i wonder why i’m tired at the end of the day
Reading this, in what I think the tempo requires, you can really feel the lethargy and depression in this piece. It totally resonates with some moments I’ve experienced in my own life, how about yours?
my mind moves about aimlessly
the terrain is vast
and still no thoughts
trying to find the inspiration
the words don’t easily appear
context eludes me
and the point is
this wordsmith’s periodic dilemma
having a need to express on paper
yet hampered by my unwilling brain
and fingers tapping, not stamping
…it’s my cross to bear
Recently, my dear friend, Chuck, posted about The Magic Power of Words, which prompted me to comment…
“It took me years to become a writer. I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up until I was in my late 40s but what finally pushed me in that direction was finally understanding what I loved so much – words – how they sounded, their definitions, how I enjoyed forming sentences or thoughts and what made music and reading so special to me. I had been in love with words all my life. It was time to honor them.”
… and he later asked me to expound on those thoughts. Interestingly, I had already created a draft to do precisely that! I will happily double down on the view that words are special and wonderful and every positive adjective out there – in other words, they are indeed magic to me! But I will also compliment my friend on putting into words for himself how divine words are—then capping off his last sentence with the title and intention of his blog – sublime!
Furthermore, I felt it was important to delve deeper into the subject on a more emotionally-evoking aspect of it for me, and purely because words are that exciting. I see many new blogs on WordPress, where it feels like the commitment to writing and using those precious words well is lacking in the presentation of their work. I’m not just talking about me being a Grammar Nazi (which, at heart, I am) but just taking words and placing them willy-nilly without any forethought to whether they rightly belong in that order or in that thought process. It feels like massive disrespect to those words I hold so dearly. Add to that, they sadly also don’t care enough to spell them correctly, in the right context, or even in a flow that makes sense. It diminishes the glow I feel that words deserve to be bathed in.
Now, I’m fully prepared to be called out that reading is subjective, and maybe the things I’ve mentioned here, another writer could feel about my pieces – I’m not perfect, I do make mistakes in my writing, and gotten called out about it to which I happily thank them. What I’m referring to primarily is a gross misunderstanding of how to write a coherent thought. Words are meant to deliver information about the subject matter, concept, or story idea – not take away from the purpose of what those definitions are relating. Sadly, I’ve read many who, as I said, don’t seem to be that committed to pulling off a sound thought. That makes me sad because I revere words. I hope that we all remember how unique and magical words are, letting this opinion and concern of mine be recognized the next time a post begins to percolate in a writer’s brain.
Thanks for reading! Comments and/or slap downs encouraged. 😉
we give our best to the world
musicians, art, writers and dancers
coloring it beautiful
Please go check out the rest of her paintings. She is A.MAZ.ING!!
When I look deeper into this piece, I feel it doesn’t necessarily refer to just dealing with writer’s block. Humans are complicated, and sometimes facing things is a long-drawn-out process. Being scared is just one of the emotions one can go through.
How I hate those poets who rise at dawn
to write a couple hours before work—
Wallace Stevens especially, Emperor of Ice-Cream,
my ass! You’re not the only one with a day job.
And don’t get me started on Ted Kooser,
who should be staying up late in the flatlands
to watch the milky way flow instead of drinking dawn
from a bucket some early bird probably pooped in.
My muse sleeps in a bottle and does not awake
until neon lights buzz. She inspires the moon
and I do her bidding beneath flickering televisions,
whipping a ballpoint to get every last drop.
The only time you’ll see me in the stark morning light
is if I’ve had to walk home drunk and forgotten the way.
As the soft skin of your leg
conceals the strength of your thigh,
I lean in close to hear your voice—
quiet as dandelion seeds in autumn
with words powerful as a storm.
Hand in hand, enjoying your perfume,
your mouth and eyes straighten,
no longer curved like the rest of you.
I don’t want to relax my grip
but know I can’t clutch onto my desire
without losing that which I hold most dear.
I was the teacher’s pet
not because of my smarts
but because of my charm,
smooth chocolate compliments
and precision tattling.
I knew which bully to befriend
for much-needed protection
and when to stab him in the back
then upgrade to a bigger model.
There will always be men
who think they’re great
and need little guys,
like me, to confirm
Bartholomew Barker is an organizer of Living Poetry, a collection of poets in the Triangle region of North Carolina. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular, written in strip clubs, was published in 2013. His second, Milkshakes and Chilidogs, a chapbook of food-inspired poetry was served in 2017. www.bartbarkerpoet.com
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I shared this with my husband and he agrees 100%! 🙂 Nice job revealing these truths, Mich!
You are the love of my life
and the poetry i write–michelle
to be loved
by a poet,
and a curse
love him and
in his heart
you become his
betray him and
his deepest secret, his darkest side
you become his
you will linger
in his lines
in his highest highs
and lowest lows
and you will be
(For visually challenged writers, the image shows an old wooden door framed by ancient stone, with an ornate key inserted in a rusted, heart-shaped lock)
For Sue’ s writephoto
Thursday photo prompt: Secret #writephoto
“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women are players.
They have their entries and exits” famously said Shakespeare.
life’s timeline listed
in the various stages
of a mediocre existence
a simplistic description
by an extraordinary dramatist
of being during simpler times
he writes of societal norms
and average lives
like they were all just average people
those times seem uneventful
if he were alive today
what would he write now