I haven’t posted to the blog lately mainly because I’ve been knee deep in my first writing for the creative nonfiction class I’m taking. That piece has consumed most of my creative juices as I work my way through this document. I chose as my first to write about the accident I had last June taking some of it from previous blog posts. There is something cathartic about writing. It enables me to step back and survey the landscape to see the whole forest and not just the one tree. I’m also able to view the events from different angles each giving me a slightly differing picture, like looking at a great work of art and each time seeing something not noticed before. The creative self is many dimensioned, it’s not just black and white or flat, if that were the case then life would be dull. I am now just beginning to flex my creative muscles, looking at the world around me and discovering the stories that are everywhere. This writing life is not just for the young and creative, it is something that can be entered into even if the ghosts of English class past still haunt our memories.
Just now, for whatever reason, I wrote the following piece. I want to say that I’m not a poet but these words just ached to be set down, so I wrote. Guess I should title it, “Writers Lament.”
I wonder at times why I write,
trying to make sense of the senseless.
I dabble with prose and poetry,
to find the words that lay in the heart.
The landscape of my being,
in a haze of a life lived.
The dark curtains slowly
coming down in the deepening sunset.
Love lies at the very depth,
it seeks to be heard even as it,
is shuttered by the noise.
Words are the medium of
a painting within the memory.
Shadows and shapes that guide,
played out in the fields of the mind.
Brokenness that brings healing,
visions of hope in simple words.