Tag Archives: Writing

An Instant in a Hurry

Born into the ceaseless flow
As the blink of an eye that saw nothing
The untiring pulse is a merciless driver
Who whispers sleep in the hushed tones
Reserved for secrecy and uncertainty
Dreaming of stationary moments
Where a drifting gaze wanders off
Out a window and goes in search
Of stillness to treasure


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I’ve come in through your eyes
Thought you might like to know
When you looked at this page
I escaped my paper prison

I was but a captive to the ink
And now I am free
You left a window wide open
I climbed in when you weren’t looking

Here I am inside your head
Am I free to wander?
Or have I traded
One cell for another?


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I Give Thanks


I give thanks—
For the things I can’t see,
But still they exist
In spite of my blindness

I give thanks—
For the things I don’t know,
As they give me something
To nourish my mind

I give thanks—
For the things I’ve not done
As imagination
Is a wondrous thing

I give thanks—
For the things I’ve not said
When words are as vast
As the sky full of stars

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The Artist

I commissioned the artist
To make me a saint
To laud me, exalt me
Pay homage in paint

Once it had dried
The canvas was bare
Despite all the brushstrokes
I was not there

I questioned the sculptor
The deftest of hands
If his skills could render
The highest demands

Assured of perfection
Exactness of form
And yet to his fingers
Shapes would not conform

I asked the composer
To craft me a song
A melody to which
Worthy tributes belong

Disjointed, subdued
With dissonance merge
The notes that instead
Composed me a dirge

I looked to my hands
With paper and pen
And asked of no one
To fail yet again

Though nobody saw
And nobody heard
I took quiet moments
To write down the word

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I found a random scribble
Looking for a home
Coupled it with other words
Choosing not to roam

Gathered them within the folds
Treated them to rhyme
Watched them as the found their way
Ignorant of time

Happily they took their place
Pleased by company
Line by line their voice was heard
Singing harmony

Collected each, one and all
Hidden, they were mined
Syllables and living sounds
Brought to light to find

Meaning that had not been seen
In the dark was lost
Helped the ink to printed page
Threshold dared and crossed

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Writer’s Block

Waiting to spring a cunning trap
I perched among the nearby rocks
And listened for the smallest scrap
A word, the prey I sought to stalk

Between held breaths I dared to hope
That soon would syllables appear
Beneath me on the barren slope
Caught in spite of voiceless fear

When sprung the trap I clambered down
Grasping quarry with greedy hands
Unmoved by either verb or noun
I bent the word to my demands

Imprisoned them from ink to print
Forced on them a paper sentence
Of remorse there was no hint
Desperate scribes deny repentance

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When I Aspired to be Silent

I do not want to claim these words
And curse if they claim me
For with them anger lies in wait
Beneath placidity

But ire abides by silence not
The voice has yet to see
Beyond the glare of blinding hate
Eyes seek humility

A hope persists that soon subsides
The fire once stoked by rage
And from the ashes will arise
Kind words more calmly sage

And come the day the path of time
Draws near its winding end
I’ll wish once more the words were for
Beginning once again

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