Push, not pull

A week full of family and no time for writing. And every day I could feel the words unsettle, sigh melodramatically, pace back and forth with determined strides, pouting. Sometimes I could feel them scratching at me from the inside, then a bit of knocking. Hey, are you ever going to let me out?

Tuesday was the perfect day. A perfect day for writing. Giddy with an overcast and trembling sky, I gathered up my writing book, pens, and a few poetry books to skim during the quiet periods. The first two coffee shops were full, and by the third I was getting apprehensive. Let me out. Knock.

Around 2:00 PM, at a smallish unassuming coffee shop on Front Street, I opened the door and the words flew out.

16 October 2003, 21:10

In need of a good wringing

Sometimes the sadness seeps in, drinks itself into the fibres of my clothes until they are heavy, damp, cold. Outside, in the scream of a northeast wind, I can feel the sadness cling coldly to my skin. Cloying. Dampening my arms and legs and stomach and back. Dissolving me from the inside out.

07 October 2003, 20:10

Three poems

Three poems now appearing in the mag: muse apprentice guild. They might be easier to read here, here, and here.

01 October 2003, 07:10