When the Words Come

I don’t know that I’ve shared publicly how writing has gone for me the last few years; I more or less lost the ability to string together long stretches of words to make books out of, and stories became disjointed fragments that I could barely catch.

I’ve been writing anyway, content with small thoughts expressed, but my mind has been improving (for a variety of reasons, but no illusions here: I am a former fighter pilot soaking in the cooler air aloft in balloons these days). I have been able to express myself; concoct thoughts, find words, a lot of the important fundamentals are coming back. But the skill I used to have, of collecting unimaginably large ideas and sorting them up in my head like a magic trick, well, that I think is gone permanently. But I still enjoy a long sentence that makes sense; I like to see words well-edited now and then. 🙂

Anyway. Tonight I was just sitting down to listen to some music before bed, and this little thing popped into my head. “When the Words Come,” and it makes me feel the juice again, a little bit, and that’s a happy. This is why I still write will no real hope of any more publication: the writing itself is beautiful.

That lovely

infinite stretch of time

when words arrive

on the back of steam-snouted horses

in the chill air of misunderstanding

snow underfoot, but the

well-shod truths

bear their complexity with

strength, led by witch’s visions

stepping off the horses

the horses now quiet and

diminished:

silences departing

the postman delivers the envelope

with a cotton-gloved hand,

the hind-brain opens it and

spirits fly forth

damnations hand-in-hand with

terrors and angels and

understanding dawns, the

entire mess

still stuck like pins in that one word:

the forebrain has it now

all the words that came before

suddenly making sense and

expectations form of words

yet to come

nothing,

nothing,

this beautiful will come again

and yet angels are lined up

overhead, unseen, laughing

with the words of the future moments,

and the poor writer bears up as

best she can:

a heart can almost break

when the crazy world

threatens

to make some small sense