WRITING

This morning I managed to still my breath
to hear the voice within tell me
to step away from the conversation,
to push away from the table
long enough
to pay attention to the words
laying at the threshold of my heart.

Others will always companion me
along this uncharted journey, their fingerprints
joining those of thousands whose hands
have shaped the clay of my soul.
But the final touch on the Potter’s wheel
is reserved for the One who formed me
in my mother’s womb and leads me still.

With whispered words He summons me
along a path strewn with stories
waiting to be heard by fellow travelers
who hear the call to Home.
I’ll gladly sit now in a dimly lit corner
where I’ll pray and let His words
fall freely out of my pen.

MEN OF LETTERS

Ancient fires still burn brightly
in the night and in the souls
of those who listen closely
for the sound of stories told

by ancestors who spoke few words
but who with fingertips blood red
carved old truths on granite walls
to proclaim their holy thrones.

Give me now a simple table
in a corner so I can work
undisturbed, bent over paper
while transcribing angels’ whispers.

Blackest ink flows swiftly on
this rough grey canvas spilling
words to songs which go unsung
in this world of agony.

May sirens always call to those
who long to touch the hearts of all
by telling truths, exceeding grasps,
uncommon dreams of common men.

WRITER'S MIND

It’s taken me a while to realize
that not everyone can walk through the veil
at the entrance to the temple of imagination.

At times the veil mocks me
with an unspoken word,
ill-defined
vexing my mind,
stealing my breath.

But oh for those days
when standing on the other side
I look up
and the palest
of blue winter skies,
mesmerizes.
Before long I’m pleasantly ambushed
by disjointed words
longing to leap off a page like ill-fated lovers.

But just as quickly, they’re gone,
and I must be content with reality
until it lifts once again.

DESPERATION

The word angel ran off with the muse
after cutting my tongue from my mouth.
So now I’m left with pre-verbal grunts
and nothing to say.

NO OPTION

Some days this pen feels like a scalpel
as I finely slice through layers
to reach the marrow of truth
that lies deep within these bones.

Too painful to watch for very long
I turn my head but continue,
knowing the writing urge within me
won’t rest ‘til the words are born.

Excising the story and setting it free
is my life's task I'm certain,
but the pain of composing is slight
when compared to a mute life of silence.