In which Your Humble Blogger gets a little dreamy and goes for imagery instead of logic or substance (hah, like that's really anything new):
I often walk at sunset. When I do,
the horizon, inspired by the weight of
oaks, meets my heel's slope, then continues and
adjusts to the flight paths of the herons.
Conch shells sing its line; when I pick one up
and listen past the break of sound, I am
then lit, as if on fire, with a message:
Enjoy it, dear. The path is rarely straight.
If I follow the voice, then I follow
path, and I am home. I know because
of the curve of Grandma's hand on my head.
The curtains, the ones holding the windows
in place, move to allow for the moon, and
the stars, even in their mobile, are free
for a night of dreaming.
* * *
This was an experiment with less than logical thought. I think that, if I were to keep this around to work on more, I would keep only the last four lines; the rest of it is just a hodgepodge (great word) of images trying to call to mind the idea of curved lines. But hey, sometimes you need to write for a while before something halfway decent comes out. Sometimes you have to sift through the muck before you find that shinier little nugget.
I remember that two factors were starting to make the poetry a bit harder to write at this point. One was that I was starting to miss writing prose, particularly the fantasy-based short stories that I like playing with. I didn't, however, have any ideas that seemed to fit into short story form.
The other factor is one that will probably get its own post soon, and by July, it was casting a huge shadow over everything I was working on. It involved me taking a very long trip out of state....