About That Call

61637142de94c12d2c2df3cac49b377dAbout That Call

Poet sits staring at blank page.
Knows now, there is no end
to the words.
Lifts head toward ceiling,
then drops it again.
Words are shrouded in thick
mist of mystery. There,
but somehow hidden
or hiding. No more than garbled
whispers, lacking clear shape, form
without substance or definition.

Prophet says “Pray.”

Poet thinks, Easy for you to say.
What…how do I ask?…
Gimme a poem…
at least a beginning…
just one image?
Can already hear the answer…

“I have given you the gift of words,
the time and space to express them.
A facile mind and the means, faculties
with which to use all of these. You
want me now to paint you a picture,
write it for you?”

Hermit stops sweeping the floor,
“I’d tell you to take a stroll, walk
outside, but it’s raining. Maybe take
a nap? Find something in a dream
that will give you some meaning?

Poet: Been there. Got something,
but lost it before I got to the page.
Now just blank, white, empty.
Something about the words
being vapor, disappearing
with wind of movement.
Clinging for a moment
like mist, then dispersing
in all directions. Gone.

Like that black bear cub,
long ago, sitting in middle
of dirt logging road, playing,
trying to capture dancing sunbeams
filtered through leaves in tree
branches high above his head.
How disgruntled he appeared
after realizing we were peering
at him. Waddling away into thickets,
probably grumbling like impatient
poet who can’t capture escapist words
filtered through sunlit memory.

Elizabeth Crawford  5/7/2014

Notes: Pure biographical process for today. Have been wanting to write for days (it seems). Too busy rummaging through and trying to bring order to all the templates, for coloring projects, I have on my computer. Kept telling myself I’d do the writing tomorrow. This is what happened when I finally pulled up a blank page this afternoon. And all the while I was playing with this, I kept getting glimpses of that black bear cub from that long ago day in the woods with my father. Kept dismissing it because it just didn’t fit, lol. After writing this, I came on the dashboard of my site and glanced at the statistics. The last poem to be visited here was The Call poem. Image is from the internet.

About 1sojournal

Loves words and language. Dances on paper to her own inner music. Loves to share and keeps several blogs to facilitate that. They can be found here: https://1sojournal.wordpress.com/ https://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/ http://claudetteellinger.wordpress.com/
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1 Response to About That Call

  1. I am in a rather lengthy period of no words at this end…..muse is resting, brain is overloaded. This will ease at some point. I love the image of the little bear playing with the shafts of light. Wow.


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