It’s great when I can look around and see lots of evidences of my creations, on days when I feel (relatively) creation-less. At least so far, though it’s only 7:30 in the morning and the sun has barely provided enough light to watch like yesterday and tomorrow the falling rain. This evidence of something inside me bursting to come out, even as if in a drizzle, when we talk about legacies — for the kids, for the grand-kids, for the planet, for the wife or the daddy.
So it’s good, here a book of poetry lost in a pile of greater poets, there on the wall set off by a golden brown solid wood frame a so much abstract notion of what April looks like — to me, on that day. Isn’t April the most poetic month, and haven’t I made my best effort to this date to honor her — oh sacred April — with my colors and my words?
I snap pictures on my walk
Where science holds hands with nature
In recollection, digital, colorized
My eyes look up and out
Osprey lording over green river and
Blue pond cattails lean left in morning breeze,
Hold sparrows on their fluffy perch
I drop to my knees
(In my heart)
In thanks — once again — for this. All this.
Yes, evidences that there is more inside me than nothing — always good to know — more, even, than lots. Whitmanesque. I am large. Little me with my little life has much to offer. Which, of course, leads to and begs the question — Whose doesn’t?
If I can get sober anyone can get sober, I’ve heard that said from time to time over the years of abstinence and re-generation. And that may or may not have anything to do with creativity — I think I doubt it — just another thing to possibly think about.
Here it is a Monday ( and I bet there are more Monday songs than Friday songs) and so far today I feel, so far, a little vacant and possibly direction-less, other than the imperative to lower the cholesterol and get down on the floor and stretch these old bones, among anything else in need of stretch, and already today — and it’s only 7:47 — I’ve read Walt Whitman and Langston Hughes and Sylvia Plath and William Carlos Williams and Mary Oliver and I can honestly report it hasn’t been to compare, but rather to seek brave new worlds. These early morning worlds always waiting. And like Ringo Starr sang, “All I’ve got to do is act naturally.”
So good thing there ain’t no white chalk outline around me yet. Amen to that.
Someone has written a poem.
When I read it
Will I twirl?
Will I then write my own?
Will I catch the sun from the corner
Of one eye, the moon
From the other?
Will my past line up behind me?
In devotion to
The one me now?