I sit, each day thinking.
I struggle for words.
Perhaps not struggle, more,
A game I am intent on winning.
There is no choice, no alternative
As my fingers walk, no, jump
From key to key, or are they notes
I sing to myself while searching
For that perfect inspiration.
I have tried to understand it
Thinking understanding would
Bring greater ease, a smoother
Transmigration, a movement
Leaping out from thought
To word. Like thunder follows
Lightening. But I have found no
Ointment, no slickening salve or
An effortless way to move
From thought to verbalization.
There is a galaxy of words
Swirling in my head, each one
Dodging my outreached thinking.
But on occasion, I snare one, a
Word, that is, and quickly capture
It on the page, incarcerated in
Black ink or analog, the tiny
Symbols mean the same.
If I wait too long, questioning its
Appropriateness ⸻is it the right
One? Is it the best fit? Are the
Syllables too many or too few?
If I wait too long, it escapes me,
Leaping back into that swirling
Galaxy. Sucked into a black hole.
Our lives are not long enough
To explore the universe as
Ancient mariners sailed the seas
But our minds possess imagination
Such is our sextant, such is our sail.
We have our own wind.
But even imagination is contentious
So still I seek that perfect word
Where thought is caught unaltered
Where truth is easily seen.
As in the words of Grenville Kleiser
In 1910, or was it 25?
The profits of God were moved, as
Their writings do manifestly prove,
To fetch from plants, herbs, and
Other natural things, many right and
Fine similitudes and proper
Comparisons, to adorn their sermons
And garnish their speeches withal,
To make the same by such familiar
Means the easier to be conceived and
The readier to be believed.
There remains a gap, more, a chasm,
Between thought and word, we see
Our future sway, short-sighted fear
Of others learning more while we
Learn less. Judgment and argument
Are not sufficient, secundum Bono,
In this quickly changing caldron
I keep reaching for the right one.