What happens when time’s hands have stopped, leaving you uncertain which side of the clock is ticking. Perchance this room is dark because mother has left a drippy blanket to dry over the rising sun. We turn on a bedside lamp to reassure our searching eyes.
If the clouds never part; if the rain never abates; does that mean we are unwashable of certain sins?
Sin gone born again. It was early morning, the pup and I jogging underneath a blanket of Mother’s solitude. No one ventures out in the rain ’round here. But, would this earthy baptismal wash me clean? Then I wondered: why exactly was I dirty?
Awe lordy, don’t ask this one to pray! for she is angry! Experience tells me, you’ll take your breakables home no matter how much I beg to let them stay.
What of this you may say? This is that voice that perhaps we shouldn’t be projecting upon the page. Yet, if we stifle our muse with a whip eventually she’ll be a runaway, as any kept thing should. Art shouldn’t be defined by us or them. Art is energy when we allow the light turned on. If I control this electricity that swells from a place I cannot see, but I know, then there will be nothing on this page for you, or me, to grasp. Do we not read to get hungry?
This garden I planted long ago has been slowly dying. Certainly there is death after spring’s quiet rays is replaced by May’s heavy sun. The tulips bow forward in exhaustion, their silky blooms too delicate in nature to withstand too much heat or midwestern winds. The rose, however, how she has been creeping. Wild in nature, I’ve seen her throw down her blooms in protest by too much pruning.
So… here I am! as I stole from a movie. Today, I must express what has been brewing at the bottom of this burnt out copper pot. The copper has lost its luster because I’ve failed to take any energy to make her shine.
You shall be my energy, my wild vine that will help me to create more words upon this page. I’ve been away this week researching, trying to understand why my father lays in ICU in so much pain. We don’t appreciate how much we depend on other’s support and light until we tap our last reserve. Your words shall be an organic feeding frenzy filling this empty plate. I hope to digest it all in the next few days. Something tells me, there is even a wild vine to place in the empty vase longing to hold something beautiful.
(sidebar: this post came in part because I recently told another blogger that I was going to take a break from posting poetry in order to work on writing better poetry. When push came to shove, though, while sitting in ICU, it was only poetry that came to me. (I posted them yesterday) Even if what I posted is less than good…it seems to be the chosen voice of my muse. Caution: you may just kill what you tame, especially the wild thang that resides in each one of us… artists ~ )
