Poetry

Sometimes I wonder if I have got the chops to write the kind of poetry that people will remember. Or if I am capable of writing the kind of story and or play that will move people.

When I close my eyes and look inward the answer is always yes. The ordinary and the extraordinary are there and all I have to do is reach for them.

A bed of roses and the smell of home, I see it all and so much more. But the timeline is obscured by mist and the way forward is foggy.

Can't do more than hope to find and follow the path of a shooting star and maybe one day find my way home. Sailors sail and writers write and the words and seas share the contradictions of safety and storm.

I don't search for meaning or try to read more than that which lies upon the surface. Analysis leads to chaos so acceptance is the beneficiary.

Castle walls rise and are illuminated by rays of moonlight. The mix of dark and light provide the contradiction of endings and openings. So we ignore the serious and seek the silly with no expectations other than the opportunity to explore the forbidden and forgotten.

There is magic...always but none can say if they are its master or its servant and it really matters not.