Rhymes and reasons

Take paper, pen, and wait for words to flow.
Breathing suspended. All is possible.
The blank page stretches out; last night’s new snow
Untrodden, where we may plant footprints; show
The path we took, and others where to go.

Each poem is a map; a traveller’s guide
To strange lands we have passed through, wandering
Wide-eyed, alert and innocent inside
Our own heads; to the many roads we’ve tried,
The loves we’ve lost, the dreams we’ve been denied.

Like postcards from the places we have been
(Or wished we had); our reminiscences
Of roaring cities, cobbled streets, quiet green
Woods; eye-witness dispatches from a scene
Familiar, dreamt, and all points in between.

Like letters to an old friend – or maybe
We’re writing to ourselves in years to come:
To get ‘er down before she goes; so we
Need not depend on fickle memory
To tell us what we knew, and used to be.

 
 

One man’s take on this crazy art of ours – and a riposte to my inner critic, following our imagined conversation in the pub earlier this week! N.

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5 thoughts on “Rhymes and reasons

  1. It’s below zero Fahrenheit here, Nick, and when I went out to shovel the walk and deal with the drifting snow this morning my fingers quickly grew numb. Then I came in and read this poem and smiled in my head, as you say in the poem.
    “Each poem is a map; a traveller’s guide
    To strange lands we have passed through, wandering
    Wide-eyed, alert and innocent inside
    Our own heads; to the many roads we’ve tried,
    The loves we’ve lost, the dreams we’ve been denied,” you say,
    and I say,
    Wherever roads are walked by poets looking
    for meanings dancing with the dance of leaves in trees,
    the poet sings inside his head and conjures words
    that conjure time and spirit always fading
    toward tomorrows anchored to the poet’s
    rhymes metered on the blankness of his page.
    You are such a wondrous poet, Nick. You’ve made my day.

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