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.
Stanski
November 3, 2023, ^
Steve Haarman 