Why I Write

It’s probably unwise,

at least for me,

to live too much

amongst the trees

of the past,

especially mired in

swampy regret,

or pining for

a simpler time.

Still, there’s at least

as much pleasure

as sadness there,

in memories of happy places,

in reflections which can still

set my soul aquiver with

hope and purpose.

It need not be all

tear-jerking schmaltz,

limb-breaking angst,

riddled with wistful yearning.

There’s equal opportunity 

for minor mood elevation,

or for metaphysical meaning,

in the moments of

Been There Then

and

Be Here Now.

But, mostly I write to find out

what I’m thinking today, 

to take my temperature,

to check my mood,

always to tell the truth,

which does indeed set me free,

but not until 

it sometimes annoys me. 

And so it goes.