Oh, goldfinch!
Bright yellow cheer-bringer,
Flash of color
even in winter’s darkest days.
Too late I moved toward
The sliding glass door
Where you would have seen my shadow
And veered away.
Instead: Thunk.
“Oh no nonono!”
I cry
and reach for you,
fallen,
as your glowing tail feathers
fan out wide
in a blaze of color,
then close as tight
as your dainty feet,
curled.
You are still warm
as I hold you,
tiny,
in the palm of my hand.
Tears well up
as I wait,
hoping.
But your eyes stay open,
fixed and dilated,
and even as I hold you,
admiring your bright gold feathers
and the tiny streaks of red on your breast
that I’ve never noticed before,
you grow cold in my hand.
I place you
tenderly,
at the base of the daffodils
which mimic your radiant glory,
but which,
like you,
are starting to fade away.
I feel
a great deal
of melancholy
folly
going on.
It’s not fun.
But I’ll face the setting sun
and again soulfully yawp
like Uncle Walt
Whitman.
Carpe Diem.
This is a journal of my personal creativity journey. It started more than a decade ago. In January, 2009, I heard a poet read at President Obama’s first inauguration. I thought: “I can do that!” And so I started.
Making a goal of writing and posting a poem or creative piece every day, I put my creative thoughts into this blog. Most are short poems, which I try to make into haiku (they are in the sense that they are 5/7/5). Some are longer. Some are free verse. Some are prose pieces. Some are silly. Most are serious and observational.
During the years since then, I’ve written more than 7,500 poetic and prose pieces. Along the way, I’ve discovered / invented three different types of electronic media poetry: ConTEXTing, IMprov, and ImproVerse. Each of these three has to do with an electron delivery method (phone texting, Instant messaging or IMing, and improv voice recognition.)
Some of my creativity pieces are “romantic” in nature (I was single back then, so a lot of the writings talk about the pathos of that state). Others are observations of either nature or human nature. Many deal with the issues we all face daily. And still others are just thoughts and musings, prompted by my observations of what is happening around me. Some are augmented by my photography. Most are left for you, the reader, to visualise in your mind. All of these reflect how I see the world, and what living and observing and just being means to me.
Can Creativity Help You See New?
My hope, my dream, is that people will read my creativity and “see new”. They’ll think about how they see or what they feel about the things I see and feel. And, most importantly, I hope my writing, day after day after day after day, will inspire others to simply see, to observe the amazingness happening around them, and to use their creativity to capture it in whatever form or style they choose.
People tell me “I used to write. I wish I could write more. I need to write more.” To them — to YOU — I say: “Do.” Because, decades ago, I heard another poet. And then, I did.
PS: My work is in chronological order, with the most recent writings immediately following this post. If you are looking for a particular subject or topic, type in some key works in the “Search” bar (above right), and it should bring up all my writing related to that topic. “Prince Charming” seems to be a popular search!
To some
it may seem strange,
having heard poets
and troubadours
wax nostalgic
about seeing starlight
reflected
in still
lake waters,
to have never seen
those lights,
those starry nights.
To have never known
what they spoke of,
to have never experienced
the beauty
of doubled diamonds,
some suspended above,
twins shimmering below,
clear and focused,
shining and waving.
Then,
one clear,
crisp
Wisconsin spring evening,
post eye surgery,
walking on a dock
which extended out
past trees
and lights,
and anything,
just he,
after a half a century,
alone,
suspended between
hundreds of glowing orbs,
times two,
at last seeing,
understanding,
recognizing
what others had sung about
and enthused over
and painted
and immortalized.
At last,
he saw.
Some might think it
strange,
and sad,
almost tragic.
“What he missed!”
they may exclaim.
But to him,
at last viewing,
finally comprehending
and feeling
and floating,
expanding his soul
and blending his
diamond tears
with the lake,
and with witnesses
before him,
and his gasp,
breath of adoration
and joy,
with creators like him,
the wait seemed
a small moment,
but so large
in its connective
worth.
