Hide and seek

Where do you look 

for poems, for stories,

where do you find the words 

you need to write,

where are they hiding, waiting 

for you to discover them?

It's like playing a game 

of hide-and-seek, isn't it?

You search inside your journal, between 

the blank pages, hoping to find them there,

or you look inside the barrel of your pen

wondering if they're concealed there,

or you examine the book you're reading

to see if they might have gotten lost in its pages,

or you look outside your office window on the chance

they might be floating like clouds in the air

and all you need to do is

reach out and grab them,

or maybe they went for a ride on the wings

of the crows cawing above the roof

and you just have to wait

for them to return,

or maybe they're like beads on a string

wrapped around your wrist

only you can't see them until

you reach for your pen and open your journal 

and begin moving your hand across the page 

like this.

And you wonder at the miracle

The poems come in bursts

like gusts of wind

or a sudden rain shower

words spilling onto the page

coming from who knows where

your heart, perhaps,

or some other place

inside you

that's kept under lock and key

inaccessible 99% of the time

except on those days

when without knowing how

without understanding why

the key finds its way

into your hand and

you can unlock the box

and watch the page

beneath your pen

fill with words--

words you didn't expect

you'd ever find inside yourself

and you inhale a breath

and exhale words

and by the time

you take another breath

the wind has died down

the shower has ended

the box is locked again

and you wonder 

at the miracle

you just experienced--

the magic of poetry,

the mystery of words.

You never know where your pen will take you

You never know when you begin

where your pen will take you.

It's like stepping into a boat

and setting sail across a lake

hoping for the wind to point you

in the right direction.

Or like diving into a pool

hoping you can float.

It's always a mystery how one word

leads to another, how you can create

a trail of words and a path appears

that didn't exist before you began.

It's always a surprise what you find 

along the way, something unexpected, 

something you've never seen before,

something you're able to see in a new light,

from a new perspective. 

You never know what you'll find 

each time you begin. It's like going 

on a treasure hunt, like being pulled 

by a magnet you can't see, can only feel 

tugging at your heart.

The mysterious rhythm of words

The mysterious rhythm of words--

how they arrive on the tip

of your pen one moment

and are gone the next

how they flow onto the page

on some days, spilling 

so fast you can barely

keep up

how they refuse

to emerge from your pen

on other days, suddenly shy

reluctant to show themselves,

unwilling to appear

how you have to learn

to wait, to be patient, and

how to coax them

from their hiding places

and how you have to learn this:

it's all part of the mysterious rhythm 

of words, part of the mystery 

of the writing process

a mixture of silence and sounds

melody and harmony

poetry and prose

each word containing a secret

each word a key to a puzzle

you need to solve,

each word a secret path

leading to a doorway

only you can open.

Where do the words come from?

After all these years

it’s still a mystery

how words flow from

some invisible source

through my arm 

to the pen in my hand

the ink flowing onto the page

letter by letter, word by word.

It feels like I inhale air

and exhale the alphabet.

My pen keeps forming phrases,

sentences, out of the blue

insists on amorphous thoughts

taking shape, becoming

stanzas, paragraphs, pages

that I turn in wonder

awed by the mystery

still trusting the process

curious how words appear

day after day out of nowhere.

Where do the words

come from?

After all these years

it's still a mystery. 

—

 

Finding a kind of rhythm

I find a kind of rhythm, 

even if it feels awkward, 

writing every morning, 

fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes, 

sometimes more, 

using a fountain pen 

and a journal from Otterblotter

with unlined pages 

because I prefer the open space, 

the sense of freedom that comes

with an unmarked page, 

a sense of possibilities-- 

anything can appear on 

the page at any moment!--

and even when it feels awkward

or I feel empty and don't think 

I have anything to say

I convince myself to go 

to my desk anyway

say to myself 

just sit down, open the journal, 

pick up a pen, see what happens. 

And I come to the page 

feeling like my head 

is a block of ice... 

and I hold the pen in my hand 

as if it's an ice pick... 

and it's like magic, 

how the ice begins to melt, 

how the pen is like a wand 

that can shatter the ice 

and free my thoughts, 

and here come the words 

spilling onto the page 

like a stream in spring flood.

Replenishing the well

Lately I've shortened the time I spend writing in the morning.

In part it's an effort to re-charge my energy after a busy month and give myself a rest. The chance to rest will, I hope, help replenish the well out of which all words come. 

Every so often I think the well, which feels close to empty now, needs time to refill itself.  

I don't remember the last time I took a break. All I know is that month after month words have flowed from my pen, and that I've held the pen waiting to see what emerged. 

I never know what word will appear until its shape forms on the page beneath my pen. It's part of the mystery of how writing works.

This process of stepping into the mystery day after day, and not knowing what I'll find, is part of what keeps drawing me back to the page. 

I try not to have any expectations (just hope that I'll be able to write something). 

It's like receiving a gift, the feel of the pen in my hand, the sensation of moving the pen across the page, the sound of the nib scraping the paper, the sign of words appearing, as if by magic, on the page. 

And maybe what draws me back, too, is the simple act of leaving words behind on a page like footprints in the sand.

Evidence to show that I existed, at least for a day.

Before the waves of time wash the words away.