This morning, I sat down to write for my hour, a thing I do every morning. Some days the words just come and I’m off, like riding a huge wave to the beach.
But this morning was not like that at all. I started late. There were many distractions, and my brain would not focus or seem to find a wave to ride. So, I just wrote a bunch of bullshit, for about 35 minutes, until I began to describe my dilemma.
And then the following happened: a poem.
At first, I didn’t think it was a poem, since I was just free-writing in a paragraph form, but when I looked back over it, I noticed some rhythm, and some internal rhyme, and so here it is.
I’m actually still in my hour of writing, as I’m typing this explanation. I have 8 minutes left, but I thought I would knock out two birds with one stone, and post the results here for you to enjoy.
This one goes out to everyone who is actually on a beach on this beautiful Labor Day. I wish I was, even though the weather in St. Paul is wonderful this morning. I miss my beaches, the salt air, and the sound of surf. Here’s to being there once again, before too long I hope.
The Muse has Gone.
This is just mental wandering,
looking for a topic that resonates,
a wave I can ride into the beach.
No waves right now.
The surf has died,
or rounded out, or off.
No more white caps,
no pulling out into a pitching wave,
just ripples lumbering into shore,
and the sun beating down upon my shoulders.
The scent of salt in the breeze,
the sound of seabirds,
and laughter from the shore.
A washing sound,
as rippling waves, wash over sand
and retreat to do it over again.
The call of mother
and giggling child,
splashing in the gentle surf,
bearing pails of sandy water
building castles never-lasting.
Girls walk hand in hand
along the sand,
eyes following ever after,
reflecting waves and suns over the sea,
while puppies dance
and bark in ecstasy, of the day.