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.

4 thoughts on “Poet

  1. 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.


    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

    Liked by 1 person

  2. 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.



    Liked by 1 person

  3. 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.

    Liked by 1 person

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