[This poem that I wrote in 2016 reappears occasionally as I look through my blog, I have re-published it before (in 2017 I think,) but in between it becomes obscure and only pops-up when I discover it again.]
I write when the bottom is sinking in again
and the Snafu rises to the surface.
Sometimes writing a poem has the effect of
sucking all the Bad out, and diluting the poison.
I write when the mania has taken control
and after the screams have subsided
or are drowned out by the deep silent sobs
and the shuddering fibers of my thundering heart.
I write when there is no other way to speak
when the words refuse to be dragged
from their pages where they are neatly shelved
hidden shyly behind thoughts and whims.
I write when I am alone, not forgotten
as much as being un-present, invisible at night,
lonely and merely outside of my realm of being
lost and quite unaware of existence.
I write when in a crowded room of laughter and jest
…a make-believe woman far from magical dream scenes,
waiting quietly for something unknown and unexpected
returning from a place she never had been.
I write on an airplane, lifting off into the sun
embarking on a journey to the mysterious lands
beyond comprehension or itinerary, planned or imagined;
faceless strangers for companion, confidences, and comfort.
I write in hotel rooms, or tropical cabanas, by swimming pools…
in restaurants and cafés, in city squares and gardens,
by convent walls with crumbling paths of ancient stone
in sun-baked patios cooled by humming, whirling fans.
I write in trees–high in the branches, among bird’s nests and aeries
hidden from prying eyes that would observe or edit, or criticize…
the thoughts and ideas that appear to be written in flowing script,
too fine to be human–word letters shaped with flourish and flair.
I write in buses, (in between naps,) inspired by wheel sounds on pavement,
the hiss of the door and the pull of the brakes, give texture of sensation
to the passing landscape–punctuated with traffic lights and bus stops,
and spend the travel time enjoying the skills of the driver.
I write in bed, holding a fat notebook precariously, (an impossible position,)
gripping unyielding edges until my hand aches and throbs so the pencil rebels…
defying legibility of penmanship, the rational thought of re-settling begins to intrude…. or the Cat succeeds in dislodging my grip.
I write the best, in my opinion–in my Mind. But alas! thoughts are fleeting!
The challenge: to timely capture elusive expressions of tender intuition…
those whispers that transverse the deep realms of the conscious mind
…before they can disappear without having been born.