I’ve made a practice which feels more like a demand, that each day I take a few moments or more and stop whatever else I was, or should have been, doing to write a poem.
There are days, perhaps this one where it seems more a short bit of prose to which I have added line breaks despite the protest of the words, condemning them to bear the mockery, and others when I take a poem, ignore its inherent rhythm and pass it off as prose, that insult remembered, the words plotting revenge but lying low, waiting for the perfect moment to destroy a poem I know is worthy of publication.
Our problem is one of blindness. We are constantly seeking for that which we have, that which have no need of, that which we think we need but cannot be certain.
If we limited our blindness to things life would be simpler, but our blindness carries over to our search for enlightenment, for redemption, for absolution, and we fail to realize that we have all of that already, if only we would stop looking for them.
Driving to the car dealer yesterday for what I should have known would be expensive service, not because I hadn’t had my car serviced in over a year, simply because any trip to the dealer for service is expensive, Q.E.D., I drove by Easy Street.
I thought of stopping, perhaps looking for a small house to keep for the occasional getaway, I mean who doesn’t want to live on Easy Street.
Sadly the homes were run down and the neighborhood was spotted with half empty strip plazas, so I had to conclude it iwould be hard to live on Easy Street.