Over There

'Over there' is always an option 

- a boat I can travel on

start the engines to stir waters

feel the sun warming my face,

and wind combing my hair ~ but ~ 

does it fit with my intention 

to put my feet down and

stay still while my pen moves 

curving into letters 

swirling into ideas 

until my hips get sore

my hand cramps and

I wiggle just to keep my blood flowing. 

over there may be across the room

or outside on the water or the prairies 

when the words begin to flow again. 

am I making excuses for myself

so I can put my pen down?

this artistry paying only dividends of enjoyment 

painting word pictures in black ink or pixels. 

bending to the old messages 

- maybe not always so old -

that zeroes in on dollars and cents 

when it is sense that should be attended to. 

bending to those messages 

carved and curved into my memories 

like rutted grooves of an old vinyl recording. 

spinning ‘round and ‘round without stopping 

until I really look over there 

is that option really all that much better?

is it just busy work?

only a different form of play?

will I come back to what intrigues me most 

putting pen to paper to curve and carve out 

what my head, hand and heart want 

until over there is a rest, a pause, a refill for

it is the well outside of me that

refills my spirit and gives my body rest 

from this unproductive but joyous thing - 

(I sound like a scratchy voice on a very old message machine.)

So I hoist my sails,

sling a pack on my back

and write a story of 

over there. 

“Writing is its own reward.”

~ Henry Miller