NaPoWriMo #7

Beautiful Objects, Out of Reach

The chandelier you can not draw without erasing
a hole in the center of lightbulb number two.

The tiniest frog in the bay.
Small is not always easy.

The glossy black water snake
slipping between thick strands of milfoil.

Heaven.

The memory of your first fish,
the simple quick tug. Then nothing.

The top of the mountain. There is always further
to go. The top of the last pine, for instance.

Heaven.
Even the gate.

The glorious heft of your father's shoulder
when you were three and he, half of now.

If you are lost, the key. If found,
the map with a red line leading away from home.

Heaven.
I hear it is beautiful.


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Today was a tough day, poetry-wise. I had many starts in my head, all tossed aside. Even a couple starts in the journal. Also tossed. Thought about posting something I wrote a coulpe weeks ago, still rough, but decided against it. Went for new. Glad I did. My mental muscles thank me.

Tomorrow my dad goes to the dr. to discuss possibilty of surgery for aneuryism. Talking to my mother last night, I had a brief moment of clarity--this is serious. The man has to decide his fate. I know our fate is ultimately in God's hands. I know. But they will be asking him to make a decision. It was all so clear for a moment, as if my mother was sending me a message. Then, just as quickly as the fog lifted, it settled back in. My make-it-all-better cloud settled in and I resumed thinking, well, he will just say no thanks. Don't cut me open and I will go on living. As if the time-bomb couldn't go off at any moment. And it could. But I csn't think of it.

Why mention all this? Well, for one thing, it's my blog! Ha. And for another, I think this is why I am having trouble writing today. I have never been one to write during times of crisis or unrest. I write for the beauty of words and the images and to create a word picture. For all that I write, not for catharsis or for meaning or for answers. So when I have this "thing" looming that is heavy and awful and demands answers, my muse says, sorry, dude. Not my problem. Thus, the list poem.