Didn’t They Get the Memo I’m Not Writing?

We did not plant these. They were brought here by the wind from gardens past.

FIRST LINES
show up now
in droves,
as if blown in on a breeze
like spider plant seeds
determined to find a place to take root.

SENTENCES
appear in my thoughts
as on paper,
typed out,
at every turn
moments asking to be freeze-framed.

“Our last conversation before she went into hospice ..”

“She emailed at 5:30 AM an apology for last night’s desperate call…’I don’t wish to add to your burden…” completely unaware of the kindness she’d done me, including me in what’s happening in her life, giving me one less person in the world walking on eggshells around me, holding back on hard news and thereby increasing my isolation.”

Even the simplest thing seems so important, for some reason.

“Remembering what he said – about his grandfather’s garden and a sudden craving for fresh green beans – I went directly to the farmer’s market and got some.”

* * *

STRINGS OF WORDS
first thing in morning
last thing at night
and all the live-long day
they pour forth
on my head
like the overflow
from a roof gutter
jammed with leaves,
and me underneath,
umbrella-less.

I capture a few here and there
as I can,
but didn’t they get the memo:
I’m not writing at the moment?
I’m resting.

Where were they when I had a break and could write?
Sleeping on the job, no doubt.
Undependable.
You can never find them when you need them,
places to start.

* * *

FIRST LINES –
seeds of something
I don’t know what –
all looking to slip into a crack,
settle in,
wait things out,
wait for seasons to run their courses
and then perhaps … to bloom.

About Marilyn

Reading, thinking, listening, writing and talking about faith, creativity, ESL for refugees, grief and finding the story in a story. Student of Spanish. Foe of procrastination. Cheez-it fan. People person with hermit tendencies or vice-versa. Thank you so much for reading.
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3 Responses to Didn’t They Get the Memo I’m Not Writing?

  1. Charlotte says:

    If I may….
    Artists and writers DO because they MUST. Otherwise the torture of swirling words, blended tones, simple lines, why they would in fact drive us nuts! For someone who turns a phrase as well as you, who can articulate the image in a word painting like a Cassatt on the page, for you NOT to write is unnatural. Those first lines and complete phrases aren’t really going to write themselves, you know.

    Like

  2. Belinda says:

    Marilyn, I just discovered an English poet, Edward Thomas, who died in World War 1. He didn’t know he was a poet until Robert Frost pointed out that his prose contained poetry–and then he took off Your first lines remind me of that. Here is a beauty of his:
    ADLESTROP

    YES. I remember Adlestrop– The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June.

    The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. No one left and no one came On the bare platform. What I saw Was Adlestrop–only the name

    And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

    And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

    Like

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