Looking

So, I’m a bit OCD. Some would say very. Which means I spent the better part of Wednesday and Thursday looking for the kidnapped piece of black clay. Needless to say, I didn’t find it, but…while searching for it, I did find 20 toy mice, 2 pens, 1 highlighter, too many dust bunnies and my poem tracks.

That’s how it happens. I work the idea, do research, find words I want to use, do a lot of pondering. What am I trying to say? What brought this idea to me? Why? What are the emotions the idea taps? Then, out of the blue, while doing something completely unrelated, I find the tracks of my poem. This usually comes down to one word. One word changes everything. And the poem is born-rough, unfinished, sloppy even, but it’s all there.

I work with L.E by my side and Maddie Rose wondering about my desk looking for: black clay shards, no doubt. Still, I can’t get mad at her. I’m much the same as I search for poems from my memories, thoughts and experiences. I never know what will rise and become going that poem that haunts me.

I tell myself the piece of clay is gone for good. I tell myself it’s OK, but it haunts me still. I have a Christmas Eve breakfast to attend, along with a little job Santa asked me to do and gifts to deliver. I sally forth, trying to ignore that little nag, for the poem is whispering too, as I attend my civilian life and I can only manage one other life. That’s what it feels like sometimes, with my writing. As if, I am living two lives.