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I have been overcome lately with the need – the insistent need – to write.  And write and write and write – so I have been.  I am accomplishing little, but at least the work is easing the gnawing lust for sitting at my computer.  I once heard a wonderful comment from someone whose identity I no longer remember, in reference to the ideal length for sermons:

The mind can absorb only what the seat can endure.”

Of course, as that phrase is apropos to anything that requires one’s attention, I tend to apply it more to everybody else’s writing and speaking than to my own.  I am no longer absorbing anything I write, because my seat gave out a long time ago.  But, it has gone numb, so I have quit thinking about how much it can endure, and just keep on writing. . .writing. . .writing.  An example of some recent work from my Muse:

Under the magnets

Like I would with a nagging child,
I will sometimes/often ignore
the jumble of photos attached
to the dry-erase board.

(Have I ever wet-erased?)

The magnets doing the work
catch my eye first.  Varied
in size, in shape, in color and design;
functions identical, yet each unique.

(What in creation is not unique?)

I wonder where they came from?
No matter, they serve the purpose
of covering the notes there scribbled
long ago in red.   Important notes.

(Is taking notes stealing?)

Notes I do not remember –
when or for what – I failed to be
specific, thinking I would know,
of course, the cause for the subject.

(Can subject be subjective?)

Forgetting the notes is my job,
or must be, as I am drawn at last
to what the magnets hold:  my
life, the objects of affection.

(Can object be objective?)

The field of bluebonnets, such beauty
captured by a friend, reminding me
of the two little girls, embracing,
wearing identical skating outfits.

(Can the identical be unique?)

The calendar beneath the magnet was
not used to count the days – forgotten
as the rest; but now a reminder
of time gone by, a distant September.

(What does time go by?)

The magnets attract me, pull me
to the yesterdays I forgot.
Where do the eons go when they
topple off the world?

(Are they posted on a dry-erase board?)

Times, stacked up, until they cannot be
held in mind or memory; no magnet can
hold our time.  The power to attract
is gone, lost in the layers of history.

(Am I now or ever lost there too?)

I want to, need to, must search, find
a magnet for my time – borrowed –
not taken nor stolen.  I will post it,
on the board. Not wet, but dry.  Unerased.

(Can borrowed time be given back?)


What is on your dry-erase board?  Is it ever erased? Or do your notes, hastily jotted down, (or photos carelessly posted), stay as the perpetual reminder of all you have done or failed to do? Enough. . .

*** (From among the finest poems ever written – “Ulysses,” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.)