Sunday, January 12, 2014


The clamor
For my writing
Is distant and seemingly silent
But I hear it
Just not with my ears
It comes from the gone
Like my dad
Who believed I could
And that I would
That I would do it
Could do it
Full circle
Full step
The unedited man
But I took long meandering turns
In my road through life
I stopped for extended periods
In other places
Like a school
Where I taught
Like a lot of things
That delayed and denied
The writer I am
Or should be
Or could be
Maybe would be
If I did
And it is there
I love it so very much
How it hurts and stings
How the bell rings
Signaling that the time has again arrived
For me to string words together
In some form or fashion
To create
The creative
The creativity
Not being snarky
Being true
To the clamor for my writing
From so distant a place
I am

Saturday, January 4, 2014

Waiting for Something

Melancholy late afternoon Saturday
Overcast quiet chill occasional car passing
No music no TV cup of weak tea
Read the same paragraph twice
But it doesn't register
Body fatigued mind more so
Nap not possible
Hungry but nothing to eat
No interest in cooking or buying or even
Looking in the fridge
No clear thoughts but a thousand muddled ones
Lethargy makes a change impossible
Sit leisurely in chair sore from sitting
No thought of moving
Waiting for something
To happen