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How vacant I feel when I come to this blank page...
How empty... ...how void...
Like a painter before some gawking white canvas-
Half frozen in fear and apathy,
Stopped cold by billions of possibilities...
The whirling colors of gemstones cut on the fly,
Crafted images faceted by a wondering mind.
Other times...
I wander like a lingering carnival guest...
Staying beyond the hawker’s lament-
Tents folding around me
Lights grow dim, and laughter fades...
Trying to regain the moment of ecstasy
As it was known just hours before:
So many eyes gleaming wide in wonder,
Pockets full of pennies...
It seems I have no words anymore-
(Or perhaps I lack the courage)
To declare to you the righteous wonder
Of ordinary moments.
I stutter and stumble past empty cups and melting ice-
The discarded moments of the sleeping masses...
Cotton Candy trodden on the midway...
Where has your glory gone?
.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 11 of 11
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thank you so much, my precious spirit-friend, for reminding me of the necessity to fully embrace the state of "not-knowing", just like the blank canvas is teaching us ...
it is a giant shift, to suddenly find ourselves suspended in that empty space of eternity that watches senseless actions directed by human conditioning of the sleeping masses, realizing the craziness of it all ...
the only way I have found to "survive" in that chaos, is to dig deep in order to find that tiny little spark of divinity present in each being and situation - no matter how well it tries to hide - and to stay focused just on that, so that it may grow bigger and bigger and leave its imagined prison of the human condition ...
just like you are doing each and every time that you communicate with me and others you encounter ...
your passage that leaves no tangible footsteps, but only the perfumed mystery of divine presence, on my soul ...
forever grateful for your presence
maa
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I too have been befuddled by the blank page in front of me lately. Yet it seems that the ink does still run free, as does your writing!
peace
doug
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A pure white canvas, primed and ready to be painted on. What a wonderful place to be at in this life.
Past is discarded, future is yet to be concieved.
It's a place where Trust is all important.
The painter loads his brush with paint. There is a hush as he makes his first bold stroke against the virgin ground....The work is begun...Wonderful!
Excellent poem, dear heart, Full of thirsty longing.
Bravo!
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An excellent piece, as always. It is different in style from many of your others, but I think it speaks more urgently to your feelings. A wonderful poem!!
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Be the canvas
What it be, friend?! As already stated, you did a beautiful job of painting out an inner landscape with (bitter)sweet images....
But why bring "me" to the blank page, the empty canvas? Why not Be the blank page on which the Pen is sure to scribe, the naked canvas on which the Brush strokes...?
Be ever Presence,
Rahad
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Wonderful!
Are you sure that nothing was said here?
Then why am I reacting?
You always communicate to me dear poet!
Jane
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sympathy
I know this feeling. If I have said it once, does that mean I cannot say it again? Doublethink is paralyzing.
Somehow, you have found a metaphor and images that describe this situation exactly. Well done.
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Bravo!
It's strange how an empty page demands a scriber create something.You have expressed in grand metaphores that uh! ,now what shall I do! Feeling we can get.Never worry you might have writer's block. You've found a plithera of evidense to the contrary.
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Oh Pres, what is this? You know there will be more spun sugar tomorrow ... the glory is just resting between shows
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"It seems I have no words anymore-
(Or perhaps I lack the courage)
To declare to you the righteous wonder
Of ordinary moments."
Sorry, Sweetie...ya just did. 
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Wonderful sweet Presence. Yes sometimes the most intimidating is the blank page...the new day. Especially when life has run a rollercoaster over you.
I love the references to the carnival and cotton candy, it is county fair time here and is just chimmed to perfection.
Bravo!
Marianne
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