The past week or so, I've come up with all these great ideas for new poetry, but haven't really had a bit of solitude enough to write them out, thinking I'd vomit them all up in one grand sitting of poetry. I've finally sat down with pen and paper, and they immediately went on vacation. Every. Single. Idea.
So, I did the old writer's trick. Write something. Get a stream of consciousness going. Well, a poem got farted out, but it was dinky and did not lead to greater brevity of work. It just led to me staring at the page thinking, "What the fuck happened to me?!" I used to sit down and words would pour from me, but that's just not around anymore. They're muscles I haven't used in a while, and if I've learned anything from watching too much TV, it's that you have to work through the early aches if you're ever to get that nice body.
I shall make it a point to write one new poem every day. For now, this is the crap that came out of my pen. Please, ridicule me. I deserve it.
Love and Lyte,
Yellow Crop Duster
I drifted, as happens when the taking is best,
drifted into a past existence
or maybe a parallel, empathic reality
when I saw it for the first time.
Unlike wished for times and places
this happening reaffirmed I was
where I needed to be - should be.
admiring while passing by -
drifting in and out of 6-year-old
awe and fascination, a time when flight
was unexplained and magical.