The Start of a Poem

 

When I write these days,

there’s a choice in the ways 

I can put pen to paper,

or 1’s and o’s to a screen.

When I start to write,

I first stare at the vehicle,

pad or pod,

give it a nod,

then really stare, no blinking,

just a gathering of what I

might be thinking,

what I intend it all to mean.

When I write these days,

it’s no different than the past,

knowing at the last,

that the screen is not blank,

the page is not empty.

There’s a lot already there,

so I continue to stare,

seeing the life earlier created,

although now mightily dated.

I see country roads and city streets,

village lakes and oceans deep.

I see family lost,

often regretting the cost.

I remember smoking all kinds of things,

being fat, thin, fat again,

recalling the cost of our wedding rings.

I realize I’m unlikely to write 

the poem I think I’m writing,

maybe something softer, more vague,

perhaps a piece angrier, more biting.

I remember our cats, only one still around,

but I might write about them all,

lap cuddlers or not, quiet purrers at times,

at others a battlefield sound.

Then there’s nature abundant,

in the distance, on the road, in our backyard,

past work in my younger days,

mostly rewarding, even when hard.

I see the beaches and mountains,

some still visited today,

thinking, oh to be a child,

so easily filled with joy,

so ready for youthful play.