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Revealing a Struggle Writing a Poem; A Journal Entry.

Updated on June 4, 2017
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Tim Mitchell has been writing poetry since high school. He enjoys exploring them, the many forms, and writing them

Awakening to passion. How the morning began.

Yawn-stretch-yawn began the morning near midnight. There is no Mr. Sunshine beginning his journey poking his silly head beyond his earthly covers keeping him hid. Nor is there a brilliant glowing pink hue painted majestically across the lavender sky. Sitting in my comfortable lounge chair I am like a brave, courageous astronaut exploring the outer regions beyond the imagination.

I say aloud, “Good morning”. With a swift glance I notice Entertainment Tonight is on sharing today’s scuttlebutt of this and that of celebrities. Giggling I begin remembering my funny, odd dreams realizing they were influenced by late night TV while slept contently in that chair. I felt the passions of a new day introducing me to a new adventure with exploring this or that as a writing adventure.

Awakening is like the pedals of a blossom opening.
Awakening is like the pedals of a blossom opening. | Source

The regular stuff may blind feelings of passion

I felt passionate about my new journey with a new excursion with writing. I did not know if essay, fiction, poem, or journal entry. Journaling had become the most familiar of late. Fueled by that first cup of tepid, savory coffee I settled in the chair in my study. Feeling a poem on the tip of my tongue I opened my poem folder and then a new document. Abruptly, I stopped. That thought flew away like a bird satisfied with its sip of water at the birdbath. Where did it go?

Next, my curiosity grabbed hold saying you are missing the morning news online. My mind reeled haphazardly grasping for that bird that fluttered away. But, I wondered what were the latest and greatest stories of politics I would discover. Who was arguing what point? I wanted to know what the tid-bits of rumors are.

I hobbled along as that poem faded into the obscurity of the absence of light upon my garden beyond the window. I wondered if my daily routines surrounding writing adventures became a job about the wiles of the world. Writing once was a means to escape routines and my job fueled by passions. Had passion within writing become imprisoned, desolate, and no longer a stimulus feeding liberty?

A writing idea arrives to be explored

Having a curious mind, knowledge of psychology, and a desire to write I began an exploit; what of passion, stimulus, and motivation. Pondering I thought perhaps there was an idea for an article.

Next, I wondered if there was an audience for it. Did it have viability as an online article? Would it be green with longevity? What niche would it have a life within? Suddenly, I realized I was forgetting about that friend that visited the birdbath.

I know when someone is poked or prodded, they are stimulated. Usually, it is met with resistance, of least there is hesitancy a result of the fight or flight response. That is natural. Grasped by that thought I remembered the flight of that bird – poetic thought – soaring high into the sky above. There was no hesitancy.

Soon, it had left sight on its own adventure. It acted with liberty and continued its flight of freedom. Without a blink of the eye there was a giggle or two saying to myself, “Maybe I should have paid more attention to Tweety bird?” Then I laughed aloud thinking my introspection leading to this writing adventure was Sylvester the Cat. And, Tweety is that poem of passion. Was that morning passion to write a poem playing with me?

Earnest Desire is like reaching for what is beyond.
Earnest Desire is like reaching for what is beyond. | Source

Enters perhaps earnest desire or is it distraction

So, I decided to explore the key elements for that idea. Knowing an online article should answer the searcher’s question I formed three:

  • What is passion?
  • What is stimulus?
  • What is motivation?

Off I went reading and making notes for a few hours. I had learned much seeing each could become a stand-alone article. I took caution too knowing a habit was over explaining. Just like the early morning sun stretching its wide arms giving the world a warm hug, I felt a slight nudge.

I questioned what is the point of those three without a subject? A flash dances across the window pane signaling life beyond the window at my desk has begun. Peeking I saw the stark blue of a Stellar Jay curiously looking about in the light of the rising sun upon the birdbath in the garden. A thought erased all those hours of thinking with a single breath.

It was only a moment no longer than a quick glance that another bird only touched the birdbath. Off like a streaking bolt of lightning it left. The Jay left just as fast as did inspiration earlier. Dazzled, mystified, and captured by spontaneity I started letting my fingers dance upon the keyboard not allowing that moment to flee. A verse arrived.

Whispers speak quietly to our poet’s heart heard is an angelic muse.
Whispers speak quietly to our poet’s heart heard is an angelic muse. | Source

From struggle comes a verse

Captured of sight a hidden treasure not yet revealed,

Her radiating aura’s effervescent glow held a secret,

A smile cast stretching rays of hope widely upon me,

Eyes majestically painted a landscape of loving kindness.

Lost in thought wondering explanation

Knowing there is an audience, although may be only my muse, I read what I penned. Not once, twice, or thrice, yet again and again. Soon, my mind did not reel with thoughts being bounced off of this or that wall.

It was like a slow simmering pot of hobo stew blending becoming rich, savory gravy with a unique, distinct taste. The carrots, celery, potatoes, onions, and beef surrendered part of their personality becoming a new ingredient. I thirsted for that bird to return and satisfy my once deep growling hunger. The tip of my tongue was savoring a delicate taste.

A second verse arrives

Always a reflection of nature’s beauty, a true friend,

When need arises her voice is subtle whispering in ear,

More than years, a lifetime without measure is eternal,

Always shared is matchless wisdom, blessings are received.

Does verse ask of explanation?

Having studied authors of great poetry, reading essays of their reasoning, and discussing personal meanings I pondered those two verses. Then, I questioned if explanation needed?

A third verse is penned

Once a stranded survivor on a strange barren lifeless island,

Head hung watching listless waves rolling upon then idle feet.

Beyond the fading horizon lay mourning of once was before,

Now, dolphins frolicked with the graciousness of a mermaid.

And, a fourth

Like upon the tallest peak the world is seen with great clarity,

Magical as a gentle soft spring breeze a loving thought arrives,

At times words seem a puzzle, maybe without rhyme, a message,

Time speaks wisdom never a debt, ever, a silent whisper of my muse.

Pondering whispers of ancient Greek muse and mine

Hearing that whisper, startled, her voice rang loudly within my heart as it echoed within the crevices of my brain. I wondered if earlier there was disconnect between my mind, a conduit gone awry, and my heart. I pondered Homer, Shakespeare, Dickinson, Poe, and many who self-publish their poetry and the whispers of a muse. I thought of Erato hinting poetry of Love, tragedy shared by Melpomene, and Thalia’s comedy. Soon, I arrived upon that voice whose silent whispers within my soul were in union with those of history. I giggled, I danced, I cried, and I listened.

Realizing, each poet intricately weaves their words offering a message spoken boldly or with silent wisdom asks to be listened to not as a plea, but with unbound love. Each spawned by inspiration of a muse opening doors to the imagination leading words to be scribed. There is the voice of the mystical, magical, and magnificent poem, the humble sharing poet, and importantly of each who listen as they read. No matter quill and parchment or the blank page or a word processor awaiting keys danced upon there is a song of words, fa-la-la-la . . . la, la . . . a poem. Silently, I whisper, thank you to my muse . . . a friend.

© 2017 Tim Mitchell


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