Writing is such a strange thing. It can be a strange beast you seek to coax out into the open, Or a flash of insight that writes itself. And sometimes it is a wild and crafty animal that flees uncaught into the night.
It’s just a glimmer of a thought
Almost here but nearly not.
A formless ghost inside of me
That seeks to coalesce and be.
I hold my breath and watch it grow
What it will be is good… I know!
I pace the floor, I stare in space
As piece by piece it falls in place.
I grab a pen, I grab a pad
And begin to write like mad!
Four hours, days, and weeks I write
From early morn to late at night.
The battle won, the plots all played
At last my pen aside is laid.
Satisfied, relieved and spent,
The book is boxed and off it’s sent.
A snatch of idea flew into my head
I ran for my paper and pen
I tried to write fast, my time wouldn’t last
The idea might not come again
The telephone rang, someone at the door,
My children demanded some food.
The words flew away, I slouched through the day,
Bewailing the loss of the mood.
I awoke with a start, joy in my heart,
An Idea so perfect and right.
I slipped out of bed, grabbed pencil and pad,
And quietly slipped through the night.
Into the restroom, the private and best room.
I wrestled the words into print
Two hours flew past, but finished at last,
I went to bed happily spent.
No Words Today
The pristine pages drew me
Mesmerized, pen poised,
I stared into their mystery
All possibilities lay in their hidden hills and valleys.
Thoughts dripping with bitterness…
Scenes to drag sobs from the heart
Or draw unselfconscious laughter in a quiet room.
There, far off, a lithe sand colored ghost slips noiselessly,
Dappled in moon-lit shadow.
Terror hides in a black corner,
The stink of an offal filled alley masking the feral sweat
A tender love, broken and tossed,
Crawls away in mute agony
Drawing pity to new depths.
In a lighter vein, a child quests for a kitten
The kitten’s always astonishing antics
Pulls a smile from my pursed lips.
At last I let my pen lay,
A soldier, unspent from the battleground
of words and visions.
A brief caress of the pristine page, and I walk away.
No words today.
(Comment: This is the closest I have ever come to expressing the tragedy of the unwritten story. Where creation hovers, but remains un-captured.)
( and here, reaching for a creative spark to ignite and send my pen racing… searching in vain.)
I sit, late in the night, pad in lap; pen poised in expectation.
The call to write hard upon me; a hunger needing to be filled.
The night seemed quiet at first.
Only the sound of my love sleeping beside me.
“What ” quested my mind, “do I write?”
The wind rising outside lent visions of trees bent… in pain?
…in supplication? …over long forgotten graves?
Stones hoary with age, lost in memories of weeping loved ones
and thoughtful flowers.
Ignored by empty minded leaves tumbling past on the way to nowhere.
Do ghosts quiver to awaken?
I shiver slightly in the warm night and pull my covers a little closer.
Perhaps not tonight for a story to disturb the dead.
My husband turns over and sighs;
mumbling something from the distant land of dreams.
Ah dreams! Now there is the stuff of fantasy!
Alas, my vision cannot pierce their dimly lit depths this night.
An old clock, tic-tocs. Humble purveyor of times passing.
Does it speak of mystery?
Is there the murmur of old houses and secrets best left hidden?
Speak louder old clock, my ears are numb tonight.
The full moon bumps at my window now,
and my mind’s eye can see a country scene…
a hill bathed in the moon’s light…
a single tree perched in stark midnight silhouette.
A second figure… a darkness beneath darkness.
It is a girl quietly sobbing.
What story hides in this vision? A broken tryst?
A lover gone beyond the arms that need to hold and comfort?
A heart that hides in shame?
The mind whirls in all possibilities and settles on none!
Alas! That no one idea will alight by my pillow to be captured by pen and imprisoned on paper!
A deep sigh of defeat escapes as the last idea is chased off
by the sound of a passing car in the deep hours of the night.
Paper and pen aside, light sent to the blackness,
I lay sleepless long and long.
Hungry and unfulfilled.