No melody; just ripping, dropping, cussing and other unexplained noises keep me from focusing in on what I am going to be doing. Time idles away until finally the noise subsides and I am able to proceed with calm hands and peaceful mind. No one can preach to a fire siren or play music to a lawnmower. Steady, steady I proceed, filling in blank spaces on the paper in front of me. I don’t expect a Whitman, Frost, or Sandburg, but hope for something acceptable to the less critical eye. This is daytime, so the natural mystic of the night is not going to aid me in any way. My arousal will come from sources unknown. Music will help so I listen to soft jazz. It helps my rhythm and tweaks my creative side in just the right shades of expression and inspiration for the way I am feeling now. Help is needed and my attempt to provide it through poetry has worked in the past, but that soul baring, tortuous procedure is difficult, even though I give it my all. Many have counseled with words. I proceed while finding it difficult to stay focused on my resolve. The whole wall, if you want to look at it in that way, may crumble and fall to the ground before the impact of this missive has a chance to challenge or soothe. I only have the present, so I will use what I come up with, hoping for the best and will attempt to get in the zone, so to speak, at a later date. This is never easy. There is no logical basis for expecting success, except that you have been there before and triumphed. The world of the living goes on and the array of emotions can blend together to present a reassuring effect. When approaching the spiritual realm, in which one has suffered a heartbreaking loss, feelings spatter in all directions and finding a safe harbor takes more time than those on the outside can comprehend. Still, I go on and will keep writing until I find the right touch, the warm balm that begins the healing. Steve Haarman aka Stanski January 20, 2015 ^
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Steve Haarman 