My Words

  I had submitted some of my poetry earlier.  I think it's a good example of my not being some militant sob because I'm also other things.  One of those is a hopeless romantic.  It's probably the number one subject in the bulk of my poetry.  We're all looking for love, right?

  So one night, I got into a discussion of my poetry with this one young lady who happened to read something I was working on.  She wasn't a writer and was curious about the writing process.  As I've said before, whenever I've sat down and had to write something, it just fell out of me.  If I take longer than 10 to 15 minutes to write something, its rare.  Only a couple of pieces that I've written have I sat down with it the next day and tweaked it, or rewrote something, or changed the ending of it.  Most of them just fall out and there they are.

  So after this discussion, I got back to my room early and thought it would be nice if I wrote something for this young lady.  I turned the tv volume down and proceeded to write.  The next morning, I headed to the gift shop, picked up an appropriate blank card, and gave her My Words when we saw each other at a luncheon at noon.  If you're a writer and do this sort of thing, you don't think much of it.  It was no coincidence that much of what I said in our conversation the night before is included here.  The first thing she said to me was, "How could you do this?"

MY WORDS

Words flow like a river

Sometimes the current is strong

Sometimes the water is shallow

But the stream wanders for so long

 Into the next day

I can drink from the river

When the taste is pungent and tart

Sometimes the taste is sweet

But the words flow from the heart

 Into whatever I say

No thirst drives me to water

The need is not so much physical

While at times it makes no sense

My words are not so lackadaisical

 Nor without purpose

I need not clutch at straw

Nor do I simply pull words from the air

It’s so easy, almost effortless

When I write about whom I care

 When I think of us

If I were a painter

I would cover my world with canvas

Bursts of color and joy and love

My subject only the two of us

 In every shape and form

But I’m not that colorful

Nor does my work conjure such dreams

It’s more earthy and base

But cries to be heard, almost screams

 Above the noise of the storm

Dare I think I could be heard

Above the din, over the roar of the falls

The mystery of you brings me here

To the brink of disaster, it calls,

 Calls this fool to a precipice

In the end, it’s water under the bridge

You and I have crossed before

The words, the water, it still flows

From my very being, from every pore

 My words only amount to this