ANOTHER BEGINNING
that man I'm so attracted to and have begun to
really like, and I, stand out in the open of a sub-
urban street, reviewing some of my writing; there's
something about the introductory two lines that
are wrong or just don't work the way they should,
the way I know they can, and he seems to agree
but subtly with only a light nod of his head like an
autumn leaf not yet ready to leave the branch;
oddly for two seniors like we, all this has something
to do with an infant of ours, or as I pun terribly
"the infantry;" I make no big changes each time I re-
word those first two lines but I just know there's a way
they need to be re-written that I haven't managed to find
yet; then I wonder "What is wrong with this baby?"
I want so to gently touch whatever it is that's trying to
come through these words as if it were a sleeping child,
the way I run my fingers along the lines of the bark on
that old willow tree trunk as I sit by it and quietly
ruminate; but now, here, everything seems to be about
the eyes, how things look, even what these difficult
first two lines say on each re-write seems secondary
to how they appear on the page, how they look as
an opening to the heart of the ballad I now realize
I've been writing all along; my fingers ache as I go
back to the keyboard; there's something to be said
for Braille, isn't there, beyond it making meaning
more accessible: how does one learn to touch when
one has become so dependent on what things look
like? what they appear to be? and I think "Don't
throw the baby out with the bathwater..." yes,
sometimes re-writing is about cleaning up one's
act and is necessary, but it's never about throwing
the entire act away in the process; and I determine
not to throw out what I've managed to accomplish
so far simply because the beginning was off kilter
or even just plain wrong, and never again to go
back and twist myself all out of shape trying
to achieve the impossible and find a way to do over
a hobbled or painful beginning for, ultimately, any
beginning becomes more than what it ever appeared
to be: what's being created out of it, as if on a cosmic
silk loom in which we are just two
of the innumerable threads
[free verse poem on a dream of 11-19-17. Photo "Autumn's Loom" (11-17-17 009v2) by Roswila]
PLEASE NOTE: in most browsers you can click on the above image for a larger version. Also, the photo accompanying a post is not necessarily meant to illustrate it, but to reflect some small, even slant aspect of the verse, similar to Japanese haiga (illustrated haiku).
There are many other sorts of posts on this blog. I indicate which are about or influenced by dreams. Some non dream focused posts are book reviews, "regular" poems (some by other writers), scifaiku, writing exercises, Tarot haiku, photos, haiga, and so on. However, most of those are in much older posts. There's a listing by month going back to early 2006, at the end of the sidebar.
* * * *
until next time, keep dreaming,
[a/k/a Patricia Kelly]
**** If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”). Roswila's other blog (dedicated to her photos only, i.e. no poetry or other writing; daily post); TRYING TO HOLD A BOX OF LIGHT.
