January 2, 2004
Another day begins.
Set patterns of behavior
govern our every move.
Demands, requests, solicitations.
Wandering attention
is quickly brought back into line.
Vines etched against a pallid sky.
Golden oaks tossing in the wind.
Coffee wafts through the air
the cup warming our hands.
The chill of morning kept at bay
by the remembrance of hot water
spilling over breasts and thighs.
At least until one’s dressed.
Feed the cats.
Start the car.
Go to town,
pay the bills,
mail that letter,
buy some bread.
What else? a thousand other things.
The pressing occupations of each day
reach out and coil around our time,
take over, dominate.
And then back home
afraid to be alone,
unaccustomed to thinking,
we turn on the TV.
And yet those pressing occupations of each day
must somehow be set aside
if we hope to find ourselves,
to pin down thoughts
and let them coalesce.
Only then,
given time and solitude,
feelings inchoate may transmute
into words
turn into thoughts.
And words
and sounds
become the building blocks
for statements
we make to ourselves alone.
Given these
the poet in us all
breaks through the surface,
through the cohesive molecules
of the urgencies of living,
and takes flight.
Erika Bizzarri 
I love this one. I see that it’s from a while back, but feel that its message is timeless.
I read it first, and then I listened. It’s a winning combination.
https://erikabizzarriorvieto.com/2021/04/24/poet/
For reasons that I don’t understand, I no longer seem able to comment within the blog. But maybe someone smarter will help me figure it out. In the meantime, I’m writing directly to the brilliant author, herself.
Envoyé de mon Di-Phone
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Love this poem Erika. It touches me. Your extraordinary talents for watching, creating, empathizing move me to tears. I am a pedant. Before I can turn to the writing I want to do, I obsess over the crumbs on the cutting board from yesterday’s lunch. The dog’s empty water bowl. The yard where an oak fell in a storm. I am overwhelmed by daily ordinariness that devours my day, if I let it. Because of you, and my new grandson, I try harder to stay in the moment, You two are exquisite bookends that urge me to listen carefully and remember.
Love,
M
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Lovely….
Sent from my iPhone
>
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I see that I am now able to comment directly, so I will add how much I like the last part of this optimistic (“the poet in us all”) post:
Given these
the poet in us all
breaks through the surface,
through the cohesive molecules
of the urgencies of living,
and takes flight.
LikeLiked by 1 person