I carved a moment in time
with the finest words I could find,
and yet the voice fell flat
hardly deserving of the attention
I had hoped it to garner.

So I sat in the autumn stillness
cradling a cold whiskey sour
while the sun sank behind the trees
and the words continued to race
frantically around in my head.

The chill air was heavy and still
as the pointless echoes sank,
pooling at the base of my heart,
even as orange and red and yellow
seamlessly streamed across the horizon.

When the beaded glass was empty
I set it down clinking beside me
and waited for the words to come
but there was only silence now,
and I smiled at last.

Sunset over the Aegean (Turkey 2011)

my author

she weaves tales of such glorious complexity
the richest tapestry of love and fear and wonder
and I, desparate to feel, wander lustfully
from one courageous strand to the next
dipping here dodging there filling the gaps in my mind
with faces and figures and finest determination
all of which I have acquired from the worlds
that are born of her pensive passionate thoughts
she is my muse, she is my author
and I would follow her to the ends of time
ever eager for the next incomparable tale
her characters compel her to compose

what it’s like

sit, breathe an’ start again

yet dessicated rhymes
inhibit the next step
an’ the next
til haunds clench
in sullen despair
an’ wha’s tae say
it will e’er end.

stop nou, erase
ane other dram first
rum this time
tae sweeten the words
an’ loosen the tongue
tae speak sumwise braw
so sip, an’ start again.

but dinna jus’ write
ye gormless pillock—
listen, hear the words
feel them in yer bones
wed them ane tae ither
mind nae the destination
bind yer soul tae the journey.

breathe, be, jus’ be

an’ start again

my writer

it is only because of you
my love, that i begin at last
to understand what it truly
means to be a writer

beyond the obvious creativity
the shrouded activity of mind
crafting eternal substance
to clothe ephemeral ideas

beyond the cleverly constructed
characters careening through
indecision and madness and fear
ever endearing themselves to me

beyond the precious peers
who inspire and guide you
and the late night hours spent
tapping away in the dark

beyond all of this and more
is your all too tender heart
sorely abused, breaking again
beneath the callous burden

of the utilitarian indifference
oh so effortlessly wielded by
petty fools who may never know
the unencumbered grace

of your soul

Laya, my beloved writer, at Westminster.