Quick as a wink,
words spill on a page–

so fast,
I might miss
how they there get arranged,
if I blink.

and blips
from my mind
and my blood and my heart
and my bones
and my guts
fuse through ink
to the page
and make with the Earth
an indelible link.

They ooze to a shape
some folks don’t understand. . .
Words come, and words go,
some will grow, change or shrink,
masked by whiting-out tape
to amend
the mistakes of my hand. . .

And sometimes I think,
that those glibly scrawled papers
end up more suited
to fold into planes,
when my tries
at brillant-wit-tidbits
or cool, cunning capers
my lame efforts frustrate,
till I want to start shooting
my boxed magazine
of pink rubber bands.

if those wide scrawls
with a few minutes more
strike me as worth
oh, to someone or other,
any old thing at all,

I proceed to transmit
to all haunts of this blue marble ball
with my slow fingertips
tapping keys on black flap
of a little computer
that can sit on my lap,
some form
of those same words,
which I somehow I dub, “Poem,”

a soil
that hydrates and feeds me
and the kind folks who read me,
in a flow stemming from
the onset of life and its mystery,
just as a plant eats and drinks
what it needs
through wee tubes in its stem
we’ve dubbed “xylem” and “phloem.”

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to POEM IN A WINK

  1. Jess Wen says:

    I feel like this when I’m writing – sometimes I’m so frustrated but when it works, it’s amazing!

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