It’s What I Do


It’s What I Do

When words are not enough

I drift into the murky realm of poetry.

The same words but with different meaning,

Giving form and substance to mists and ethers.

Expressing the inexpressible, defining the undefinable

A fool’s errand, tilting at windmills

That none but I can see.


A sculptor sculpts, a painter paints,

Then stands back in wonder and regret.

Wonder at the magic that birthed this thing,

Regret that now it is done.

It is finished.

Another tap with the chisel,

Another stroke of the brush

Would push that newly minted thing

Beyond the reach of even its creator.


In my imperfect way I sense something sublime.

My first instinct is to clutch it close to heart,

Amazed and bemused that such a thing

Should come unbidden to me.

What providence should intersect my path

With this imperfect glimpse of the sublime?

Now, what to do with it?


But there it is,

A potential to be realized.

If only, if only I had the words.

The same words that inform my daily chatter

But put to different use.

Reassemble the order, juxtapose this and that.

Take words and build a house of cards

That serves to represent a spark

Or perhaps just a dimming glimmer.

So easily brought down with a careless gust.

I think that is what I do,

But I’m not really certain.


Return to the Home Page

%d bloggers like this: