This poems says it all really, about how precious writing time is, and how easily lost.

This is not writing.

This is hasty scribble

To fill the time

to fill the gaps

to spill out what cannot be contained

but must end by four o’clock.

This is not writing.

This is leaning against the breakfast bar

snatches of conversations caught mid-air

edges of moods

and scraps of notebooks

fractured words.

Bruised by time

I cannot stop and wonder.

I scribble.

Move pen, drag pen, flow pen

till the dawn of their noise.

Warming Up Poem

William Stafford wrote one poem early in the morning every day of his life.  Here is my attempt for today:

After decades of frost

Hush! Who comes now?

Pale sliver of a tongue

lacking muscle.

In watery nothingness

it glides and eludes

too soon too soon smitten.

Maybe the flutter, maybe the moan

is the churn of the volcano awakened

and vengeful.

Spurting its tongues of golden molten,

its narrow tongues

now flexed, now angled,

perverting and twisting,

born of fear

yet emerging.

Hear that rumble?

It quickens.

It can no longer be contained.

Have Words, Will Write

This is my space where I can be cosy, curl up with a book or a pen and a notebook.

This is where I can talk about the things I love most in the world: words, language, books, stories, poems, inspiration.

This is where I can experiment, fly and crash, without further comment or panic or fear.

This is where I can be myself, not a mother, not a daughter, not a wife, not a businesswoman.  And not a scribbler, but most definitely a writer.

This is me, distilled, 100% pure.