BulgingButtons

Not bad for a fat girl


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Found on an Old Flash Drive (2012)

It used to be easy

Sitting down at the keyboard and just letting the words come

Often I wouldn’t know what I was writing about until the words took some form

Some shape of their own

Their own direction

I could let them spill out of my fingertips into my computer

and they would appear

before my eyes

Did I write this?

Are these really my thoughts?

Do I believe all of these ideas? These sentiments?

Yes, I suppose I do.

They don’t come from my head

They come from my heart

Or my soul

My spirit

Or maybe just from my fingertips

Do my fingertips have something to say?

Some deep message that they need me to hear?

Maybe they wish to be my guide

Maybe they are in revolt

Thinking that the brain and the heart and the soul have all had their turns

at guiding me

Have all had their turns

at leading me astray

So why not their turn?

Why not let them try?

See what they say

See if they make any more or less sense than the other parts of me

who have all had a go at helping me to make decisions in my life

So here I sit

Prisoner to the thoughts and ideas

That simply flow through my fingers

Not in charge of anything

Just going along for the ride

and waiting to see

what those knowing hands

have to teach me


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The Business of Writing

Jan 7. Beaver Pond Forest.ottawasgreatforestWriting, constantly writing
Get it Down
Draw it Out
Feel the words as they Flow
or Grind
or Pulsate
Breathe them in
Allow them to just be for a while
Exhale them
Bleed them if necessary

Sometimes it’s so easy
They flow from brain to fingertips
Other times they have to be pulled out
Yanked
Ripped
Excavated
With a rope thick as my arm
A coil of dense wire
An impossibly heavy iron chain

Are those words inelegant?
Flawed?
Damaged somehow?
Or do those rough-hewn words hold their own poetry?
Different than the silky thoughts of their more manageable cousins

This business of poetry
It seems like a cheat
Just snippets of words
Punctuation optional
Just meaning, nothing more
Style be damned
Conventions? Not today

The writing is a pipeline
A conduit
A path
Sometimes paved
Usually not

Jarring
Jagged
Rugged
Decayed in places
Pristine in others

Sometimes flat, cool, peaceful
Effortless
Most times steep, rocky, even painful
Exhausting and all consuming
But in the end worth the toil

This place I go
Is sometimes Lonely
Sorrowful
Desolate and Deserted
Terrifying
Disturbing even

Usually, though, it’s just Quiet
This place where hopes, dreams, wishes, and fears all meet

Like his forest
With the path grown over
It still exists but it has been neglected
However, neglect has not harmed it
It has preserved it
Kept it Sacred
Kept out the trespassers who don’t understand
Who don’t respect the Sacred
Who can’t see or feel or know why it’s important

Are my thoughts preserved? My fears and hopes, are they Sacred?
Or are they stagnant?
Do they develop and grow and evolve?
Am I walking in circles revisiting the same tired worn places over and over?
Like tracing a scar that has healed long ago
Or am I breaking new ground?
And if it is new ground, is it leading me in the right direction?
How will I know?
How can I tell?


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A Poem

royal-forest-of-dean-1024x768

Pebbles of Doubt

I’m walking a path that feels familiar

Yet it looks different from any I’ve followed before

The sunlight is the same

And so are the trees

The birdsong is familiar

And so is the scent in the air

Pine and mud and freshness

Wonder and wanting and impatience

I move forward

Knowing the path will guide me

My feet feel sure

But my eyes question

Have I been here before?

Is this the right path?

Where will it take me?

I throw those questions aside

Pebbles on the earth

Left in my wake

And I charge ahead

Unwilling to consider

That my doubts might lead to truth