Wordsmithing

Someone asks, how do you write
So much, all the time,
And about so many different things.

I say that I really have no idea;
But I know it's what I do right now;
And when it will end will never be clear,
It really doesn't even matter to me;
Could be as soon as tomorrow; next year;
Or, if and when I reach ninety and three.
Some can say it's because I lost one dear;
Some can say it's just plain old therapy;
I say that that is less and less true,
I say it's because I'm still breathing here,
And it's my soul now that gets to renew.
And I still have eyes that see in imagery;
I see things that can be far away or near,
Words and phrases then may appear to me,
(Keeping a pen and notebook handy) ,
And I cobble and assemble them later,
Much like forging with an old village smithy.

I just feel that there are words that convey
What I sense, and what it is I want to say
About this or that; his or her story;
About the dark that we deal with day by day,
Or the eternal light that can give us all a lift…
But always, I reach for the best fruit on the tree…
And if someone likes it… well, then it's a gift…
If no one does… then, it belongs only to me…
And, that, is what is simply called… poetry.

6-1-2016

Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: writing
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