The Formula [poem]

I want to write poems the way I used to,

pen in hand, paused, considering

what words come next,

and then pausing again

and wondering

what the thesaurus

might have to say.

Now, most days I’m concerned with “work.”

You know, that daily pull

to do,

and be,

not for the sake of being,

but so one can become.

Become what? I don’t really know

because the real work is here:

Filling up space between margins,

making words appear on paper

and hopefully,

making sense.

My old poems give me permission

to pull up memories

and imprints of emotion

long sense past,

to be examined,

once again.

I wash them with tears,

my laughter becomes hymns,

we pray


I so desperately try to explain

what they mean

to myself.

But to begin to write again,

the process is always the same.

Each letter, a train reluctant to leave the station.

Each line, a journey without a map or particular destination.

But if one waits,

not too long,

and jumps before thinking,

then the hard part is done.

The formula is simple:

hold on,

listen in,

and then let go.