It's been difficult to write lately.  My mind is stuck... sometimes I feel it might explode without writing.  Anyhow, I had a bit of an inspiration and it came out like this... it feels unfinished... but once again I am stuck.

God’s Acre

Melancholia sets in like a flash

electric

breathes death alive

a warm grave it weaves

folding mudstones and shale

making way for God’s acre

Instead of writing, I've been…

It’s been eight years since Chris died.  I imagine his back diminishing into the Tucson desert -- crossing the dry, cracked earth.  He left his father by the side of the highway, calling his name, pleading.  Chris continued across the Sonora, off the trail now, almost a shadow.

We were connected by music.  Writing songs of penguins, cowboys and nothing in particular.  Chris played the guitar expertly, I played the accordion, often discordant and whiny.  It didn’t matter, how…

Creativity has an open mind.  As writers, we ask ourselves questions that don’t have obvious, definitive answers.  We allow ourselves to contemplate obscure situations we may otherwise overlook.

Every moment has possibility.

Tangibly, there is ink on paper. Beyond, there are thoughts, composed in the mind, authored by our spirits and souls.  Existing without ever being present in the material world.

Writing grounds me… on a plane that…

Ophelia’s Rue

I noted life in the eyes of others

perhaps a moment unsung for them

I found vibrant life so surprising

that I hid and wept

behind the gravestone of a child

crooked in the earth, unadorned

I drank rue

plunged into the brook

Naming the nameless