Whatever May Come

Somedays the words            jump

       One Place
                                               then
                                                                                              Another.

                    They need to be
                                                          walked

            more often.

                                 Let the energy-
                                 The words
                                                           form            half-realized revelations.


Other times the words sludge.
    They creep around corners
or
stay back in shadows.
They play a game of catch
                                 or tag
    without predetermined boundaries
or fair play rules.

I should have practiced more.


Today they come slow.
Wrong.
Misfitting.
Scribbles as one becomes another.
      Both wrong.
Not what I wanted.
Not welcome.


Yesterday they didn't come at all.
I sat calling into the great white etherial space
without response
not even an
echo--
to remind me I was there.

I should have waited.


Somedays it's easy.
Somedays it's hard.

I try to be the constant.
I sit here.
Everyday.
Pen at the ready.
Date at the top.

Ready for the strike.
The lumbering trod.
Ready for the edge of precaution to catch
the wind of inspiration.

Ready.
Persistently Ready.

Tattoo

It peeked out from behind her ear from time to time. More often in the summer when the the wet air would encourage even the most modest or cold blooded to throw cultural expectations to the wind.

Some asked. Others stared. Few really knew or understood.

It was the best of her - lost. She had felt the pain in her soul and needed an outward sign. A physical manifestation.

It was a feather. Light and breathable with the ability to carry multitudes. Unique and scientific. Art and structure. Everything.

There were days she forgot. It has been a long time after all, but a love like that never really leaves you.

It pierces your soul with the ink of unspoken words.

My Collection.

You come to me at the end of your journey.
Your poor, your tired, your huddled masses.

Barcoded
       Folded over
                 Worn
                         Written on
                                  Stamped in
                                           Left to rot

Discarded.

Today, I seize your well-loved spine and

pull you out to rest on a

hand-stained shelf.

You'll fit right in,

next to the others in this collection
of multi-colored ideas.

Soon-

I promise to turn your welcoming pages.

Learn your secrets.

Smooth your wrinkles.

Hear your story.

I appreciate those that came before me,

and the bit of their story they left behind.

You come to me well traveled.

Be assured.

I'll read your verses-
                                            In time.

Because Love Withstands

[Unedited Writer's Notebook Entry 1/14/16]

Is there a calculation for the time in a person's life when most of the culture they consume (books, music, movies, etc.) is made by people younger than they are? For that is when you have truly aged.

Is there a consolation for the time in a person's life when they realize most of the culture they consume (books, music, movies, etc.) is made was made by dead people? For that is the moment there is true, introspective, grief.

Upon Alan Rickman's Death.