Here I am,
writing this poem,
as hundreds
of other things
scream out
for my attention,
As Autumn's bluster
rustles the treetops,
waving all red,
orange and gold
here I am,
writing this poem.
The hairs
on the back
of my neck rise
in the air, electric,
sending shivers,
Never do I
feel more alive,
and, yes,
it's like this
every time.
When the words
are right
they fit together
like puzzle pieces,
and flow on
like some lazy river,
sourced in a
land faraway
that just
never runs dry,
Here I am,
writing this poem,
and in
a hundred years
from now,
some stranger,
yet to be born,
in a world
hard to comprehend,
and fuzzy around
the edges,
will read these words
and share the
same moment,
will perhaps
be intrigued
but not have the
slightest indication
of why and smile,
They'll have hundreds
of other things
screaming out
for their attention
but there they'll be,
reading this poem.
All for now. Trust your instincts, invest in you, live boldly, and take chances.
(Gif sourced from GIPHY.com.)
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Poetry should move us, it should change us, it should glitch our brains, shift our moods to another frequency. Poetry should evoke feelings of melancholy, whimsy, it should remind us what it feels like to be in love, or cause us to think about something in a completely different way. I view poetry, and all art really, as a temporary and fragile bridge between our world and a more pure and refined one. This is a world we could bring into creation if enough of us believed in it. This book is ephemera, destined to end up forgotten, lingering on some dusty shelf or tucked away in a dark attic. Yet the words, they will live on in memory. I hope these words become a part of you, bubble up into your memory when you least expect them to and make you feel a little more alive.
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