When I write, I write from prompts,
the ones organically generated around me, from nature,
usually from my own photographic capture.
But what if I started only with the classic white space?
A screen, a cursor – better yet, lined paper – better yet,
the heavier plummet of fingers upon a typewriter…
Yes, I do remember…
When I write, I begin without an ending,
never know the next letter even;
it’s always a surprise, an adventure I
am but the vehicle for, at the will of my muse.
And so it goes with this warm-up practice
getting back into the habit
of creating the dance
in the absence of the music.
The sound and lyrics within
need but the expression mechanism;
there is never a pause in my mind,
there will never be a time
in which my fingers do not itch
for the dance
with or without the prompt,
with or without a reader.
I am a writer.
And not by chance.
Except this exercise was supposed to be
non-poetry. I’ll start again but an essayist,
I may simply no longer be.
I long for it, but wrong it seems
to try to suppress this sing-song in me
that happens whenever my spirit
brushes up against these keys,
and my wings remember
the feel of the breeze,
and my heart remembers
what it is to be
Unintentional poem and images from my journey that came to mind afterward ©LauraDenise