Is a poet still a poet
If they do not write?

A journal gathering dust,
But a yearning to write.
Am I still a poet
Without my inner light?

WRITING THE SILENCE

scratching at the silence
the pen's nib spreads the word
the empty page now overcrowded

the clink of an inkwell
the pen drinks its fill
word chases word

the pen drunk with words
blots the page
the poet curses

now the pen stops
to think. . .
before creating the next word

the candle fearlessly
standing up to the darkness
at last the last full stop

his head
rests upon his words
the candle loses its fight

in the morning
his words line up
for his inspection

his words
once only ink
dance in his mouth

he repeats them
to the walls...the furniture
anything that will listen

his thought
once invisible even to himself
now parades across the page

outside the world is
waking up
the dawn yawns

". . .these are my beloved words
in whom I am well pleased. . ."
his face smiles back from the mirror

When here
In "Poetry Land,"
I am traveling
To distant worlds
Of the imagination
Unending,
Mystical and Exotic.

When here
In the "Real World,"
I am a single, childless
Woman.
Mid-thirties;
Two cats.
Misunderstood,
Unconventional.

I lost my glasses
This morning.
Suddenly I'm back
In highschool,
"In my mind."
Remembering all
The times
I taped them;
Tried many types:
Scotch, Masking, Packing.

Luckily, In my adult life
I'm now prepared.

I dig under my bed
For my "back-up pair."

Checked every corner
Of my small studio
To find that my spectacles,
Just like lost socks,
Have vanished
To Neverland.

I have found words scribbled in books,
words that made me feel the most alive,
words that have understood me completely,
words that have clutched me to safety,
more than anyone has ever done in this lifetime.

Words are hard.
I know I'm not saying
Anything revolutionary.
For all of the human race
Speech poses a quandary:
Do I speak?

Words are hard.
You know the saying:
Like a stone, words hurt:
Shattered bones, shattered soul,
Shattered self worth.
Can I speak?

Words are hard.
They take more energy
than I have left to give.
Perhaps if I ignore the rest
I'll have a will to live.
Why should I speak?

Words are hard.

So much to say,
So few people to truly listen.

Where are you
my one perfect muse
the shape of contours
conjured in dreams
held since bud was formed

Where do you rest
waiting
like me for that
eclipse
of moments

Where?!

Are you even
embraced in capsule
light
weightless
located in One

Or are you diverse
scattered like seed on
winds unknown
beyond my reach
as I wonder

Where?!

Is it pointless to conceive
of your fullness
knowing deep down
you exist only in
poetry of disenchanted idealists

Newly formed realists
whose life work
lies smashed
pointless journey
reaching reality

Or will I glimpse you
in passing crowd
ephemeral but
sharply cut out
from all the rest?