The small hours II

Here in this silence
With the quiet patter of gentle rain
the small hours while
and my pen scratches

Slumber beckons but temporarily eludes
So I with quiet resolve
capture the mood with words
flowing as the night deepens

Why Do I Do This?

A writer of modest talent can only hope one day to put together a word or two—on on a rare week, a phrase—that’s worth keeping. This is not the conceit of perfectionism. This is just the reality of a mediocre vision that cannot totally grasp and share what floats in and out of view. It’s the frustration that has to be managed—The gap between what might be glimpsed, a brief impression of something sublime, and the skill that, were it a painting, only produces stick figure drawings.

So the experience is one of enduring a sense of constant failure, working to press my cheek up against the foggy glass that keeps me from the truth, but still trying to catch a scent of it and convey it honestly….Throwing the lariat a thousand times at a stallion that prances just out of reach, hoping that one more throw will tame the beast and bring him nearer to feel the heat and the true wild life of him.

That’s the job. (Neurotic? Of course it is. But what’s a little neurosis among friends?). It’s just a matter of putting up with failure long enough to feel the hot breath of something beautiful. It is insanity. But oh, so seductive.

Handprint on the Universe

Put your handprint on the universe

Run through the cosmos

Hopping from asteroid to asteroid

Leaving your mark

Write your poems &

Draw your pictures on planets

Spoken

My words disappeared under the moonlight,
The sounds of dissipation fading fast
to quiet in a cavernous depiction,
a blank homage to the universal past.

I’m everything

I’m dancing. I’m rhythm
I’m words on a page
I’m pen and I’m words
from a poet and sage

Butterflies

“You could sell those”

a familiar phrase

then watch my passion

turn to drudgery

A poet through and through

And now at last it’s quiet
Just the ticking of the clock
and the humming of the fridge
Little here for me to knock
So before I climb the stairs
and get the rest my body needs
My pen must get to paper
as some inspiration pleads

Oasis of Lovely

Amongst the towering walls of glass
the concrete and the steel
a sculpture hanging in the trees
is calming and genteel

YES

THERE IS NO MAGIC

I just said

YES

Wild hairs sprouted

I chose to tend them

Now I have flowers.

Hands in Clay

When my hands touch clay

I lose myself

Deep in the soft, smooth sensation of mud

Sliding between my fingers

Distraction

I was on my way to my studio

When dust bunnies began biting my ankles

Mold in the bathroom started to whine

Brilliant Madness (revisited)

I live in a state

Of brilliant madness

I teeter on the apex

Of a jagged mountain

Balanced atop a skateboard

Precarious

Paradigm Shift

They say it’s a solid but snowflakes melt in our hands
They say it’s abstract but hope embodies a face we can see
If gravity is really an immutable law, then how do ideas
rain up toward creative connections?

Let’s not be too clever to never unlearn
knowledge currently grounded as fact.

Charleston Farmhouse

Spent an afternoon at Charleston
Bloomsbury evidential there
with paintings on the furniture
and wonder everywhere

Freedom’s Grasp

Muse Misery and Ecstasy

Muses can often be

The most horrible teases

Before finally sharing

Something that pleases!

–Russ Towne

© Copyright 2016 Russ Towne

All Rights Reserved

Life in words

I like writing poems
I write one every day
‘Cos there’s lots in life to write about
and it’s nice to have a say
I’ll write about the sunshine
and I’ll write about the sea
I’ll write about ‘most anything
and sometimes simply me

The poet and some troublesome words

As a candle burned into the night
the poet played a game
Chasing words that tried to hide
behind the flickering flame

But however hard the poet tried
he could not catch but one
The words were quick to disappear
as they were having fun

Puddle of words

 

Puddle-like upon the page
my words would not conform
But when I mixed them up a bit
they started to take form

I jumped in there and made a splash
the words went everywhere
then puddle-like they came right back
and gave me form to share

Bond of words

 

Though similar paths each day I tread
there is always inspiration
in the things I see around me
to encourage recitation

But in case of memory lapses
my little notebook always carried
allows me to capture what I see
so that sights to words are married

Pocket of sunshine

 

I have a pocket of sunshine
to soak up the last rays
As they leave my garden
at the end of fine days
And in the chair I have here
I’ll sit quietly and write
With the joys of my garden
Close by in plain sight

-08.08.15_09:26-

Blue over red,
Natural way it should be,
Sky over fire
Reflected down
To the table.

Slice of Life

A poet’s life is never dull
for there is always stuff around
to capture inspiration
and write a few words down
It might be quite innocuous
that others rarely see
But captured in some lines of verse
Provides a remedy

Good times

Wind is up and cooling
But it’s lovely in the sun
as I sit here on the wall and write
now my day is done

Ambition

 

Yesterday as I waited
in a hotel’s busy lobby
writing a new poem which
’til now has been a hobby
A thought occurred and took good form
as a proactive pre-condition
to publish a collection
as has long been my ambition

The Nonsense Song

Look at these jelly fish
Pumping in my head
Look at the splattered wish
Spilling off this bread

A Creative Mind

.

Interesting things II

 

I often search along the shoreline
where the tidemark’s clear and good
for interesting shells and stones
or bits of sea-washed wood