I keep opening drawers in this crooked little room where the beginning is supposed to be. One drawer holds an old hammer, another, a matchbook, a third, only dust, everything useful long gone. I strike a match anyway, a feeble light, but enough to see a word crouched in the corner, pretending it wasn’t there. I coax it out like a stray dog that isn’t sure I deserve its trust. The moment I touch it, it bolts, vanishes beneath the floorboards, leaving me only its warmth on my fingertips. What a way to start: chasing ghosts with a pocketful of words and no idea what I’m trying to build.
The poem fascinates me because my problem over a long career is quite opposite: having too many words, too many projects, being surrounded by words like a leaping crowd of puppies. As Bowie sang "I had so many dreams--I had so many breakthroughs."
Hello, I am new to you. Just happened to stumble through an open door.
This poem struck me a different way than maybe you intended or maybe the intent was self interpretation 🤔 I filtered it through my lens of Parkinsons and identified with knowing the word yet unable to speak it at times.
I'm intrigued and see a couple of people I know. However I found you and your words, algorithm or by chance, I hope you don't mind in I stick around?
Thanks to @Britt H. aka Mika for this restack—much appreciated!
Thanks for this restack, @Lique
Thanks for this restack, @Rea de Miranda
Thanks you, @Earl Nobdy, for this restack
Thank you for this restack, @Blue Citizen 77
Good Wednesday, @Chen Rafaeli, and thank you for restacking my poem! ⭐️💫
Thank you for sharing 💫✨💫
Thank you for this restack, @Alison Redford
You’re welcome!
You're the King of Metaphor, Paul!
Craft on, Craftsman
I coax it out like a stray dog
that isn’t sure
I deserve its trust.
The poem fascinates me because my problem over a long career is quite opposite: having too many words, too many projects, being surrounded by words like a leaping crowd of puppies. As Bowie sang "I had so many dreams--I had so many breakthroughs."
There’s never a shortage of words, Lev, it’s just finding the right ones to do the job.
I meant good words for me, the right words. I've been publishing since 1978 so that's where I'm coming from.
The best way to start, I would say. ❤️
Good Wednesday, Rea!
Back at you, Paul!
I enjoyed your take on creativity.
Building from parts from things that were.
At least it’s a word and not a centipede or a spider. Well, there you go, two words to work with…
Her skinny legs perform a dance, spinning silk by happy chance.
The spider weaves her silver thread and hangs her egg sacs overhead.
On the floor below, her centipedal friend, counts his feet from end to end,
then carefully puts on his shoes and dances out the morning blues.
Love it! See? There’s your poem for today😊.
Hello, I am new to you. Just happened to stumble through an open door.
This poem struck me a different way than maybe you intended or maybe the intent was self interpretation 🤔 I filtered it through my lens of Parkinsons and identified with knowing the word yet unable to speak it at times.
I'm intrigued and see a couple of people I know. However I found you and your words, algorithm or by chance, I hope you don't mind in I stick around?
Thank you, Debra, you’re more than welcome to stick around. 😊
Everything works in this workshop. Your imagery (the stray dog especially) captures it all so well. Can I come write here today?
Good morning, Tracy—you’re always welcome! 🙏 😊
Putting on another pot of coffee 😉