I Love to Write

I love to write,
and these days, it's virtually all done via the keyboard.
But writing it is:
Words, phrases, paragraphs -
always amazing to me how things flow, or not ...
how the right word at the wrong place,
or the wrong word at the right place,
doesn't fly.

So, try it again ...
delete ...
add a new word,
play with the old,
reposition, eliminate, add, twist and bend the sentence,
the paragraph ... like clay in a sculpture's hand - squeeze and push and shape and change ...

And with a little luck, or grace, or mercy.
Something takes shape.
An idea is expressed.
Insight offered.
Or a good joke.
Or just plain silliness.

Or a matter of life and death.
Social issues.
History and philosophy.

Or maybe a recipe.
Two cups of milk and some flour.
Some oregano and thyme.

Or a cry for justice.
A prayer for peace.
A tear for a family's loss.

Or maybe just a rant and a rave.
When complaint seems to be the only recourse.
The only thing that makes sense.
Because a rant and a rave still shed light on the issue.
This is the reason we're in trouble.
This is the problem.

We don't always have to solve it.
But examine it we must.
From every angle
Like a good detective holding a piece of evidence.
From whence did it come?
Who put it there?
What did it do?
If not who, then how?

And maybe the idea will sparkle a bit.
Maybe the Word will again become flesh.
And dwell among us.

Is not this the goal of every writer?
I think so.
That the word would become flesh.
And maybe, just maybe, we could see some glory.

I love to write.

Good Friends

I have so many good friends here.
Who share this burden with me.
I do my best to honor them.
With my best efforts to see.

Thank you one and all.
Even those who think I'm nuts.
That's okay and it's all just fine.
No ifs ... ands ... or buts.

I'm a terrible poet, and I know it.
But what fun I have with words.
To touch the heights and plumb the depths.
Keenly sharp, but better than swords.

Words ...

Words ...


A word isn't really word until it's embraced in a sentence of some sort.


That's what a word is all about ... the words that precede and follow it ... and depending on those words, the word itself might take on many a shade of meaning ... perhaps this or that ... or maybe not ... or maybe ...


Hinting at what it means ... leaving the final decision up to us ... for good or for ill ... up to us.


How to string words together ... in familiar patterns that comfort with their familiarity ... or in discomfiting ways, that catch our attention and arouse uneasiness ...


Words are not easy ... every try to catch smoke?


Words convey the mysteries of life ... from the salacious to the salubrious ... our highest hopes of a better world to the bitterness of disappointment ... trying, trying, trying, to understand what is always just beyond the tip of the finger, defying our gasp ... eluding us, and quickly pecking our cheek with an enticing kiss that keeps us alive and alert and still seeking to find ... slipping away at the moment of embrace ... laughing ... deriding ... beckoning ... and maybe we continue ... or maybe we retire from the field for a drink ...


Words ... they're all we have ... no matter the language, though other languages capture their own reality in their own way ... and it pays to know something about other languages other than one's own ... even a few words of another can shed light on whatever it is we seek.


And who knows what we seek?


If it isn't one thing, it's another ...


The human spirit is restless ... always seeking ... never finding ... at least anything permanent ... but only the passing, the fragments, like a good lunch that satisfies until about 6 o'clock, and then hunger once again ... and so we get out our victuals, and turn on the stove ... and get out our dictionaries, and take up our pen, or the keyboard ... and we prepare something to satisfy ... and we know, to satisfy, only for a time.


Words ... strange critters ...


They're all we have.