#163

February 7, 2014 § 13 Comments

Coffee shop concerto connoisseur
I am listening.
“Eavespicking”
The world does the dropping.
I am scooping up the snippets
that are slipping
from the lips
in line or between sips, there are
tiny bits of magic
out of context

You may say your daughter
was braiding rainbow thread
but depending on precisely
when you turn your head
like a marionette
outside my grasp
I may only catch
braiding rainbows
a spark
of vocal static

The rest may never
come to life
if I can’t write,
can’t decide
in the context of my composition, who
or what
or why
is braiding rainbows

but that tiny drip
of inspiration
will stain across these pages
continuing to steep
in contemplation,
an almost insignificant
addition
to the writer’s burden
hanging in the space
between my pen
and my intentions

I will always feel a twinge
of magnetism
in the weight with which those words hit the page

so maybe it’s already poetry
suspended in coffee-clutter sound
Maybe it doesn’t need a writer,
just someone to write it down.

As writers, we write an awful lot about writing don’t we? For more on the significance of these journals, take a look at #110.

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§ 13 Responses to #163

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