To think of things in the early morning
To hear echoes of words and daydreams past
To put pen to paper in the evening,
At night late when everyone else is abed
Slumbering through the watches of the night.
To see pictures of things real and solid.
To recast them as imaginary flights of words,
songs and sometimes pure poetic lunacy.
To hear words in the middle of a conversation
that is not a conversation, but a monologue,
a new perceived light on the joke, pun or riddle
from yesterday or even the day before.
To think in ideas, not icons.
Not pictures of oft restated pictures,
but sounds, rhythms, voices, and pitches.
To know the ending, before the beginning has begun.
To know the meaning of the intent before the
Syllables are strung tautly together
shimmering bright as the pearls
on a new bride’s necklace.
To read and rethink and reconnect
Thoughts strewn apart
Recombining messages, ideals, verbal counterpoints
all crafted into a wordsmith’s new vision
of literary expressiveness.
Hoping against hope that others will see the same
Revelation, hear the same melodies and rhythms.
As the words, sentences and phrases constantly re-express
themselves of their verbal meaning with each new reading
of their final composition.
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