No Shirking

Last night, I told someone I haven't had time for poems though I saw poems brewing. The truth is images and ideas come to me fluidly, serendipitously. They are brilliant like the fiery sunset I watched last night as some friends and I descended from the mountains from a special time together in love and meditation.

Images like that leave their imprints. They are gifts, metaphors already written. . . .

I told my friend I hadn't time to catch them, just yet. Putting them onto the page would have to wait. I would have to mix them into lines and stanzas later, whenever time permitted.

It's 5 a.m. I have been awake since twenty to three after only having slept a short time.

I haven't written much in the last year. I have finished a journal, intermittently made myself sit down to free write and I know better. All of this is fleeting and the filter through which I see any of this right now changes. Plus, the memory -- it can't be trusted. Memory is such a tricky thing.

The poems are brewing. The gifts present themselves. I must be willing right now, no matter how busy I am, to give something to it. My conscious tells me so. The nervous sour smell in my room tells me so.

I want to sleep and I want to sleep soundly.

...an apple is a pome...

This is a decided prompt based on some Facebook comments that came after my post, "...an apple is a pome...". Here are the comments I received:

Jaime: "A potato is a pomme de terre..."

Nancy: "beware the bad pomme..."

Piper: "and a poem is a pomegranate. :)"

Here is my go after all the comments and ideas mixed (a quick three minute poem):

to eat, or to be eaten by the inevitable edit:
beware the poem that has eyes!
it is hungry, and can see you from any angle,
but so are you. The water pot
is already boiling and the knives
are poised to peel
away the skin and extract
its knotted vision.