When I write, I find out who I really am. Certainly much of what I write records - daily observations, concerns, other people's stories and short inspirations of the heart. Yet as the keyboard clicks away and I talk to myself as I work, inspiration intervenes. The surprises come between the phrases, the shadows of unspoken thoughts, and the delights of God moments.
Tough sloggin' some days through
shit that laughs as I enter and sighs
as I leave. Ooze pulls at my heels.
I change boots and keep breathing in
decay, holding my head high, searching
the horizon for inspiration. In
reverie I sink further in the muck,
settling into worn tracks of tedium,
hands tied in knots of word loss.
Yet my arms move, muscles working
against rigid thought. Tenseness
dots the i's of insolent language.
Still the bones continue to write.
Even as boredom shades the script,
one declarative phrase meets the
pointed part of the pencil
spitting itself onto the fine blue
line, spewed hope on the jeers of
cynics. A single phrase begging
further study. More, more,
please more. Mine it. Tease
it further. Find the mother lode. Push
back until the sweet centre of
anticipation lies exhausted on the page.
A glittering nugget of poem.
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