I never did find my voice. I mean, the voice I thought would pour out of me like a stream, telling it all, with no effort on my part. I catch a glimpse of a world with no animosity between people. A world of benevolent kindness. I wonder if the two things are related. Me not finding my voice but stumbling on the possibility of an emotional truce. This failure to realize one’s potential breaks my heart. We are all such a disappointment to ourselves and to everybody else. In my emotional truce zone, we all just have the right to be, to exist, to live and breathe and eat and sleep and talk and not be judged. Then there is music.

 

 

What happened to the idea that I would write and post

ten lines a day, at least not at most

and every single turn of the earth

would bring forth its crop of I wonder.

I suddenly remembered I had had the plan

the intention and the scheme - another "also ran"

to be productive in a regular way

until life, the universe and everything

somehow got in the way. 

That's what happened to the I, dear.

 

 

Edge of pre.......

 

Maybe find

 And maybe within the thin ten

Lines I’ll find myself or someone

Or something else, must be

 Open to new exes and periences, be

Cause there is a reason

We just don’t know it.

 There you go again.

 

 

Edge of precipice

 Don’t lean forward too

 

Could I steal

 

Could I steal your idea, though

bending it slightly to chill

the shrill outside calm?

 

Learn the rules to break then, stand

a side or front, deeply dipping in

to the silent cosmos

 

while the grass grows green again.

 

Oh the wind.

The wind blows. The wind talks to me.

The wind roars. The roaring of the wind. The wind lashes out. The wind knocks things over that go scurrying along helpless, rattling on the hard ground, the sound fading into the distance.

I hear the wind deep down in my bones. I hear and feel the wind at the centre of me and it feels so good. Outside it is cold, dark and windy and  the sound of that wind blowing brings me indescribable joy. A profound sense of comfort and happiness, at being cosy and warm inside while outside the elements rage.

The tempest rages.

The weather wails.

And I remember that exquisite feeling of being warm and snug as a bug in a rug underneath the covers, in my bed, with the wind howling and lashing the rain against the bare pane.

I remember.