Poems hide
in the rafters, growing dusty
on days when we don't write.
Bored, they grow restive,
waiting for our us to pick up our pens,
gaze at the ceiling, brains slowly moving
into inner space, trusting words
will arrive, as they always do,
most often unspectacularly.
Poems hide
in the midst of a pandemic,
when the number of the dying
grows beyond what a mind can encompass;
when the level of hostility in the world
keeps us hiding, along with our poems,
in our safe living rooms,
tending our wounded hearts,
our dashed dreams,
our floundering hope.
Poems hide
when we wonder
if we will ever again
write a lyrical poem
about sunshine and flowers and beauty;
they hide, like our dusty old dreams
of a world where justice and integrity lead
and the rest of us follow.
Wild Writing inspired by "Valentine for Ernest Mann", a poem including the line "Poems hide" by Naomi Shihab Nye.
These hiding poems shall come out with time. Your words speak of this experience in such a cogent and thoughtful manner. Hope you are doing well, Sherry! :)
ReplyDeleteYes, there are a lot of hidden poems. We are thankful when one of them reveals itself. They are there though....just hidden! Those lyrical poems will have to wait.
ReplyDeleteliked it. especially the last stanza and extra specially those last 2 lines
ReplyDelete