i am a writer,
silent and free.
with ideas that crumble
and smear
like cakes
at a party.
The children dance there
with their mothers,
while i am alone
with the writer.
But fret not soul
my mind is not there now
or dancing.
Rather I scrawl
to stay propped
as one of those dancers
whose appendages
have failed him.
the legless ballerina,
a writer
silently free.
so how is it then soul,
that i am now found here?
motionless
and freely silent:
a dancer,
a writer,
a me.
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Of this group of five i like this one best. It cuts to the point, and cuts hard. The image of ideas that crumble and smear popped right into my mind wonderfully. The other poems in this group seemed to wander a bit. They didn't seem to me to find their home base.
ReplyDeleteI really liked this one.
yeah - this one came first. me writer. as far as the others go i would completely agree that at least two of the others wander, even more than a bit. but interestingly journeying is their subject. intellectually they are not easy to pin down. in that way i don't think i like reading them as much as other forms but i loved writing them.
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