Musings in the Morning

It has been a long winter and it’s not over yet.
The snow falls as I write, rattling the window panes
Swirl of flakes ride the wind
My spirit is weary and feels the chill
My mood is darkening, dragging me down
Yet I must not succumb, not slip under the waves
hold onto that last straw that broke the cipple's back
but can yet save you and I

I tell myself:
when darkness surrounds you, remember the light
when unwanted thoughts intrude, close the door tight
do not own the self that condemns you
do not listen to those voices that mock and taunt you
put down the dark pen, know the truth
you are better, stronger, saner than the rest
be forgiving and more generous to yourself
as you would to someone else’s suffering
I tell myself

A soldier bleeds, us writers, we weep ink
swim with metaphors, struggle with split infinitives
we search for inspiration in a grocery list
and despair of ever, never finishing
The pain, the pain, is like a toothache
with no prescription
For the monkey on my back

Yet celebrate the victory, another wrong word found and rooted out
My book is like a garden that I must tend, for it has a will of its own,
growing weeds, typos, worse those damn split infinities and comma fungi,
and those deep rooted pluperfect monsters with their conditional outlook
in the past, in the future, that never happened yet
Can I really say that and get away with it?
Have I lost another reader in that last paragraph?

Poor reader
crawling through the vast desert
uninspired, unengaged
lost in my story line
hoping for a resolution, any solution
Do not give up
there is relief in the end
I hope there is . . . at least a kinder tone.

I would if I could but don’t
for I’m paralysed by the words stretching out over a horizon
unending, unbending, in front of me.
There are still vast jungles between the beginning and the end
Between the first word and the last
Things I wrote in the first flash of enthusiasm
that no longer fit, but oh so hard to give up
to surrender, to let go
and they haunt me still for I do remember them all

What version, you ask, I’m working on?
I can’t tell, for I have memory of them all
and expect, unfairly perhaps, my readers to know them all
Why, it is obvious, isn’t it?

Alas, but I must yet again . . .
launch another attempt to rescue my book
I have found a thread sticking out of the tapestry
a loose item in the story line
simple really to fix it, so bravely I tug at it
and the damn thing unravels
and half is now on the floor
I try to stuff it back
Damn, it won’t fit, won't go

But such is life
a journey, not a destination

So take courage
ride if you must
spread fresh straw if that is what it takes
sleep, wake afresh
for me let the waters flow
with the coming warmth new ideas will sprout
and overgrow the holes I made
in the story line.

We don’t really bleed ink anymore
We are dandelions
casting words like seeds
into the winds of the Internet
not knowing where they end up
whose lawn they infect.

My musing run on and away
And I wonder if anyone is listening?
I do and I reflect
That should be enough.

Morning is the only time I own
When I am with myself alone
to have a serious dialogue
but emotions still leak
my face is not yet set
the actor does not come out for his first curtain call of the day
till 8:30 to 9:00 am
Yet I do my best work so
and my worst
So excuse me if I preach
I just let it flow . . . let it go
out there alone.