Those Words Again

Words have rusted in fingers and mouth

I rub their red roughness, they crumble and cling

to print-whorls

but lustre eludes and taste sharpens to metallic.

How can I restart the alchemical process?

Where can I find new words, fresh fords,

currencies not yet devalued?

Coins not rub-worn by collective wonder or greed?

I linger in surface,

afraid to leave skimming.

But dive you must to dig out pained treasure

in all its green-gold mottling

the metal out of its element now dried out to brittle snapping.

I’ve played too long with rhymes and prefixes

supped and sipped                   fêted and fated

but still I fail to breathe them back to life.

Then              when I forget to look

words ripen

thumb-grown, tendrils tumbling

from mouths in cascade of green.

Shoots spring forth

and I gape in amazement

surprise caught and filled

the wonder           the shame.




6 thoughts on “Those Words Again”

  1. Marina Sofia – Oh, that’s such a brilliant description of the way we search, sometimes so unsuccessfully, for just the right way to tell a story. And that moment when we find exactly how to say something is priceless.

  2. you know…i think with writing it’s a bit like with watercolor… if we put too much force on the words and rhymes and beats we “paint them dead” in a way…they need those fresh air to be able to breathe…and shine… but hey… i LOVE rust…love the texture… so not too bad to throw a bit into the mix you know…smiles

    1. We all have days like that, don’t we? Thank you for your visit and comment. And I keep setting aside my writing far too often, which means the rust sets in and needs to be cleaned away again and again.

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