Creativity/Kuumba.
Losing poetry
is erasure,
the delicate dictation of a moment
mangled on a long gone jump drive
or hidden in files you can't recover.
You wait for those words
to dance,
twirling across the tundra
of empty journals
like a monte blanc
and only the rifts sings,
the melody
can't find her way back,
so you drown in the drumbeats
that played in the background
and hope that birth
is easier this go 'round;
but it's dry,
forcepped forced verses
that fail to fit
the fervor or the fight
that swung through
and made poetry
the only picture to paint.
Standing there
as scattered as old manuscripts
will not make more poetry;
it's still a mess
a collection of words
crumbled,
thrown,
mashed up,
and almost landing in the trash.
Unfolding discards
is magic,
momentous movement
towards new poems
without the wait,
backwards anticipation of bygones,
and we,
as poets,
are magicians,
dancers,
once again,
bringing beauty
where we thought
there was none
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