I haven’t forgotten how to write,
It’s just that, at my advancing age,
I don’t feel like having my guts torn out as often,
Or as boldly as I seemed to enjoy in my late teens,
And early twenties.
I know it’s a process that takes discipline, and
A craft that takes time.
I know it takes a heart that seeks truth,
And a poet’s soul which has the courage to carry it forward,
When it is found,
To present it to the entire world,
Or no one at all,
From two hands, one imagination,
And the intuition of a storm cloud,
Hanging over a children’s birthday party,
Choosing to listen to them laugh,
And watch them dance,
Rather than rain and ruin
The mighty parade.
I am a farm boy.
I try to grow things.
I aim to be silent enough to hear that still small voice.
I write because I have to.
It is a part of me that grows inexplicably,
The more I take it out of me and throw it at the world.
Some pieces are a message in a bottle,
Some are a letter to a friend,
Some are meant to be shared,
And some are meant to mend.
Some have a grand epiphany,
Some have no point at all.
They all have one thing in common.
They are all a part of me.
They are waiting to grow,
Take form, be torn away,
Given away somehow,
Leaving a place for another to grow,
That will scream just as softly,
Usually at night,
Until I put it to rest,