I sit  down to
write,
Pen
in
hand
And
before me
the chasm.
Intent and plan
stand
with me,
desire too

On
the other side
Completion,
success
and the finished product
sit,
languidly throwing taunts
toward my team
of yet to be poetry.

Do I,
Will,I,
Can I
succeed..

To make
the minutia sparkle,
To make
the mundane ...miraculous
To make
the everyday moment
appear  exquisitely beautiful.

Do I,
Will I,
Can I,
Succeed in,

Making

the words upon a page
leap and pirouette, To make
them echt
a smile  upon
your heart.
To have them
express
the sadness
of the world's soul,
To settle the  emotion  
of the
moment
deep,deep
into
the marrow
of your bones.

Do I,
Will I,
Can I,

Take
that leap
Into the chasm of the unknown,
crying
Hallelujah
as I go...

You
know
I do.
...Every single
time...
Every
******
one.

When,
I sit down,
to write
Pen
in
hand.

There is a joy
in the art of
a short poem,
A quick
word fix
that drives
a thought home.
That provides
a jolt  
to the heart
and
rattles the bones
That causes
the breath
to catch
and
the minod
to bend

Now
of course
it goes
with out saying ;
One of
the integral part
of a short  poem
is
knowing
when
to end..

The little blue teapot was exactly that, small,
enough for a sant two cups of tea
or an almost generous mug

In saying it was blue,
It was a comforting
royal shade,
with a shining glaze
Stoutly round
With a sphere as
the top notch  handle
All in all
a cheery
little thing
Cheap
and
utilitarian

How many cups
had it processed:
delivered
with a
drip or dribble,
that was at first annoying,
but
eventually
becoming
an endearing part
of the overall charm of the piece

It would be generous to say
millions;
But
truthful to say
thousands
of  
thousands
As the age of the *** was 12+years
of  almost continuous service.
In which time
it had been
witness
to every
emotion.
Conversations baring
soul and psyche.
Mental discombobulation
and
emotional acrobatics that would  easily gain
employment  with
Circe de Soleil
All whilst sitting  solidly still
  on the table of the day.
The little blue teapot was simply
a background character
in the soap opera
of it's family
and their friends

And
because of this,

It's
sudden
shattering
demise,
upon the slate floor yesterday.
Brings forth this eulogy to an everyday object  
Considered
by many
to be just
a thing
But to this family
a treasured piece
of daily routine.

Reached for
with
muscle memory.
A dash of color
at breakfast,
Comfort
on a cold night
A genies lamp
to a
small boy's
growing imagination.
A gift
from
one friend
to
another,
for the
shared  cup
of
Russian Caravan Tea
and a chat
that set the world to rights,
at least for another day
or two.

The little blue teapot was exactly that,
Ordinary
But also;
So much more
than it
purported to be.
So...
so
much more.