The Little Book I Never Wrote

As I sought the titles for these empty fields in my blog sign up, I looked to Robert Service and found all I needed.  He speaks of "the little book I never wrote" in "My Masterpiece" and my gut bubbles a bit as I realize that, as I approach the end of my fourth decade, I've never written for the masses anything more than a few short verses.  And the masses I shared them with were the few friends who also felt the passion for poetry.  I feel life shifting again as I prepare to move to that land that R. Service distilled into the pages of his notebooks. The fact that the two poems I looked at spoke both of the undocumented inspiration and of the well from which all inspiration flows, "What Nature Offered", leads me to believe that I'm onto something necessary and timely.

Though it's always a challenge for us to see that we can do things at all, let alone not suck entirely at them, I have been learning that worrying I can't do something (like all types of worrying) is in vain and will soon be proven an utter waste of time.  It is this that has kept me from jotting down my thoughts and stories.  My fears do not serve the readership that is waiting to be born.  My inhibitions will not be appreciated by the characters who's lives, until now have been confined to the echoing rooms of my mind.  The music that plays in the bar rooms of books will not draw that sigh from your lungs, dear reader, unless I tell you that it's playing, and that the chords are so lonesome in the way they end entirely before being reluctantly followed by more. And how each one carries it's heavy, smoke filled sound to the few who find their jaded ears in such a dreary establishment; hiding their beauty in sadness and their sadness in brown bottles.

Nature has offered me so much.  So many moments of total perfection in so many days of rapture; it will be interesting to see which fragments end up here.  And although I find the placement of sunsets and laughter here in cyberspace more than a bit disconcerting,  it's just English anyways.  It can't even come close.  I will tell you of what I see in the words that I have.   Today I watched from the window of the hospital the grey day pass over the sea, and the mountains beyond.  The wind would excite the trees for a few minutes and the tops of the mountains would come into view for a while.  Then a long white worm would crawl in from the Pacific and snuggle into the straight.  Mist would still the land again and the mountains would fade back into my imagination.  The rain would start and the world would enter into another level of mystery as the drops rolling down the glass pulled the truth of the light even farther into the depths of my interpreting.  Beauty persisted out there in the green wet afternoon. And in the hospital room, compassion shone light through the grey-est of times onto beauty's persistence.