Looking around, I realized I had not truly committed to writing -- I do a little, but my insecurities and fears are keeping me from putting in the time that I think I need to become a better writer. A couple of books I've read lately have talked about the "10,000 hours of practice" that are needed to become proficient at a skill. Looking at my writing time, I'm waaaay short of that. So I've made a commitment to a daily hour of practice -- writing, studying other writers, reading about writing, etc. In the words of the immortal philosopher, Nike, just "Do it!"
So, in a leap of faith, I'm sharing a poem I have been working on lately.
Three Summer Poems
Birds converse with the dawn,
sleepy questions in the shimmering air.The brightness creeps across the sky,
stalking my dreams and chasing the night back into its pocket.
Later, tire treads will scream their challenge and then growl their departure.
But now we are still the only ones awake.
In the quiet of morning after,
I walk amidst a conversation of small waves,
Bringing gifts to lay at my feet:
Remnants of last night’s florescent frenzy
That imitation of cannons we use to celebrate
Now our pride is tarnished by sodden paper cups
And shreds of old styrofoam washed in
This expansive country may be our undoing,
The trees and rivers and mountains and lakes
We have taken as our due, to use as we will.
We had so much,
we thought it would last forever.
White curtains give shape to the breeze, dervishes
The blinds clack against the sill in reply, like funeral castanets,
The breathing of summer,
with heat and sometimes smoke. Cinder-scent
vies with the smell of roses, rioting in the garden,voiceless,
with their green fingers and crimson tongues,
rooted in one place.