Sunday, July 5, 2015


So many times, it seems, poems simply come to me of their own accord. I think of them as gifts.

They are definitely gifts to me ... and I'm glad when I can share them with others.

When this one came to me, it was speaking of those poems ... and notes ... random jottings ... scribblings ... items on their way to becoming poems ... all of which I will leave behind ... as someday I must.

I don't dwell on that a lot, but the thought intrigues me ... particularly the idea of these little poems ... or the notes written on scraps of paper ... thoughts which never quite made it into poetry ... being able to flit around, like butterflies released ...

I like that mental picture.

And now, the poem:


Someday they'll find
these little things
I tried to write,
things that might have
become poems, had I been
able to find the words
I needed for the beauty,
the sorrow, the pain,
the joy of what they
really were. Had I just
found the words.

I hope they will turn
them loose, let them
fly like the butterflies
I always supposed them
to be, free to find
a flower, another, and
ever another, across
the sunlit valleys
of thoughtful minds.
 © 1998

(originally published in PKA's Advocate)
Today's word: sunlit

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