Why do we wish on dandelions
Birthday candles
Brief, delicate things that so easily disappear?
Do we know then, that wishes are futile?
Contretemps fought in the mind, outcomes turned over and over, like the forked breast bone of a chicken dragged away by ants
But only after it has been pulled apart by the pinky fingers of children – each vying for their wish to come true
Long end winner – that was so rarely me, with strong brothers hauling on the other end
Why do we pray to the invisible divine?
Look to the sky ?
Fall to our knees in church pews and upon bathroom tiles
Plead?
Need
So very much
Let my ashes to ashes be of a thousand campfires
My dust to dust, blowing behind me in review mirrors
Travelling mind thinking, dreaming
We are just the memory of clouds really, running across the grass, scattering the sun
Falling stars last longer in the reflection of an awed child’s eyes
First star I see, I wish I might
For what?
The breath to run faster toward a horizon that will one day be our last
What is so serious in the face of that?
Blow your candles if you must, But their brief flutter, soon gutted, promises nothing
Just another year gone around whilst we stand by wishing
*I don’t wish when I see a falling star, I make plans to see more of them, preferably whilst out in nature, rather than through a window. The same is true of candles. Though I haven’t fought over a wishbone for a long time – pretty grisly little tradition come to think of it.
I’ve been extremely productive in my time off all social media. I’ve missed sharing poetry though, simply because I don’t write it as much when I’m not contemplating a blog post. Some of my favourite poetry has come when I turned on the creative tap in order to find a blog post. I think in lines often, but an entire poem doesn’t come as easily – unless I enquire nicely and with purpose. I ask a lot of questions, luckily poetry is usually my answer.
I’ve only been gone a month but it feels like ages and no doubt my catch-up reading will take awhile too. I’ve been gone a lot longer than that from other social media – almost six months and now I have another decision to make there.
Oddly today, I found that my Instagram hadn’t blown up last year. As I searched for the Instagram profile of a lady I was interested in from a podcast, my own profile popped up. I scrolled mesmerised. It was like unearthing a time capsule.
Some background. My personal account had deleted as planned last year, and as it was the maternal link to the poetry one I thought “two birds one stone” at the time, but no, my poetry one is still there. How strange. I was a little relieved – there is a lot of poetry on that profile . Not that it matters I guess, nothing matters except what we give meaning to.
Which answered another question, and why I have finally climbed the hill of my own self and am now marching down the other side again.
What meaning do I give to my writing. None – I don’t take it seriously anymore, I can’t even maintain a proper identity on social media – how the hell am I going to sell any books or, given my very full life – how am I going to find time to write a book in the first place. I have three unfinished manuscripts languishing in a drawer that I don’t even like anymore. Begun with steam and passion, they each trickled to an abrupt stop around 50,000 words.
Writing isn’t about talent so much as persistence – and I don’t have any of the latter, even if I sometimes like to imagine I possess a little of the former.
So what? Millions have a talent for stringing words together – look at the books for sale on Amazon – trillions. So what is my relevance and reality as a writer and poet?
Zero
But I like it. I like explaining my whispering mind to myself. I like touching other peoples hearts, I like them touching mine, I like being creative and finding satisfaction in my internal work, and that, I’ve found is enough.
My wondering on whether being a blogger has any relevance in this world of countries swallowing others, threats of nuclear cataclysms, floods and suffering people, plagues and screens and mental illness and heart disease, and all the rest of it too, is over. I really did question heavily for a time, what is my relevance as a writer, as a poet, as a blogger?
Nothing matters except what we give meaning to – it is a choice, and a very personal one. I am glad so many others find writing a meaningful and worthwhile pursuit because as an avid reader and consumer of art I would find the world a boring place without books, poetry, movies, paintings and photography. Perhaps now more than ever, we need authentic voices to tune into. Traditional media is full of the dire, and social media is full of the ridiculous, yet many bloggers retain their authenticity. Well ones that I follow do anyway.
And then there are the timely messages and posts that we come across, which seem to be just for us. If, like me, you have been pondering your compulsion to write and share your work with others of late, perhaps this might mean something to you. And if it does, I hope it means you continue.
