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.

It's been awhile,  I know
This year time slips away
Been busy doing n not much
But living simply, thinking lots

No excuse not to do, not to write.
But staring at blues sky
And cat's eyes takes up  time

And now there is new generation
To see
A baby boy so free
of worry and care
All raspberry lips and brown eyes
and burping smiles
Swaddled in love and light and hope
Noah, the new captain of that ship
Calling watches with ***** cry
Two are three
And I am grand

It' been awhile
But things keep happening
Not all bad
Some  really good
Some  would say grand
A reminder that
The world carries on in spite of itself

Show me your gods
All fur, purr and bark
Feather, skin, scale.
Those demi beings
that mark your heart
and steal your soul.
Those scraps of love
That make hard days whole
mornings bearable and nights
A little less lonely, predictable
or indeed a little less cold
The bed hoggers, extra joggers
The shoe chewers, the foremen
the cuties, the mute beggers
Soulful singers, paper bringers
Howlers, growlers,meowers
Chirpy talkers, hissers,
water blissers,
Princes  waiting to be kissed
sloppy drooly kissers,
the sandpaper lickers
The back leg kickers
those who make biscuits
those who sleep,
like loaves of bread
Tail waggers, live in baggers
Perch dancers, walkies prancers
**** machines, Catnip dreamers
Redlight baskers

Show me your gods..
be they small, large, short, tall
Slim, plump, grim lumps
Portly, courtly, royalty
or  hot  fluffly messes

Bring them out to parade
with these god's
a home is made
and in these days dark and dreary
We need these gods
for when we become weary
Of the world we've made
We need
somewhere to lay our hearts
some thing that has a unlimited
grab bag of fresh starts.

These gods
everyday the give you a bit of
extra heart extra hope
A reason to hang on
to laugh to cry, to talk to sigh

So show to me;
your gods
and say a prayer
and thank the lord
he made them with care.