March 13, 2013 by Angel Pricer
I followed a simple note on form…poetry form. A form which, just moments before, I was discussing my lack of over phone tea with my mother.
I read it to her anyway, my poem. It’s a poem about lists, the ones in my mind. The ones I recently committed…to paper. She understood!
There, after divulging my frustrations…my fears of whether a dime will be earned on a word of my writing, was this thread to follow. Quite by accident, I clicked a link.
Most days I’m just fine with the notion that my writing may be read only by my mother, my husband, a friend or two, and that if my living isn’t made there, surely my living inspired the gathered words.
Today is not one of those fine days. Today, I feel keenly the lack of the things I think I need to be happy. I am not unhappy. This need that wells from deep within echoes the blustery fears of a human race I thought distance could protect me from. Not today.
Today the sunny mild sky betrays me, bringing snow, wind, and a chill that makes my creek side walk seem distant, unattainable.
Today I burry myself in the words of Walt Whitman, travelling in my mind to the bank of the wood that called him close, as mine cannot be seen through this unexpected falling, this fallacy of failing, that no longer warrants my attention.
Quite by accident, I found myself, in the pages of old prose and the blustery winds of human emotions that come, and go.