Sitting here, watching water crawl

Folder: 
Skipping Stones

I've lost the track,

there is no trail,

no way to tame 

this tiger's tail,

and so often I see

the flow between 

brain and pen

and simply wonder...

just what this means.

 
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justanotherscreename's picture

I like it. And I don't want

I like it. And I don't want to know your thoughts on this one. I'm glad it is open to interpretation.

Beavis's picture

Thank you Sir!

Everything is open to interpretation, even when the writer doesn't want or realize it. One of the reasons I love poetry! Often, I find more in a writers words than they imagined! And sometimes, my words make that leap with another. That is magical! 
 
SSmoothie's picture

Oh what a joyful thing it is

Oh what a joyful thing it is to wonder anythign at all! I often love to wonder as I wander down the hall, what do i write and why then how? and what exactly brought it into being, often me never really seeing but giving it the freedom to cast itself as it will, and others to make of it what they also will! a great gift! cute poem with a hint of lazy searching on a sunday after a good roast. ;) great to see you back in action b! HUGSS


Don't let any one shake your dream stars from your eyes, lest your soul Come away with them! -SS    

"Well, it's life SIMS, but not as we know it" - ¡$&am

Beavis's picture

Indeed! The how and why set

Indeed! The how and why set me pondering constantly, and that's a great thing; but the freedom is indeed liberating and limiting. Once I do write, I'm challenged with the dilemma of is the poetic and for others or just self serving doodles. When it's artful, (to me at least), I'm happy. If others agree, it's sublime! But when I'm in doubt, not so much. While both are valid and are sometimes perhaps worth sharing, I'm bashful (at least in the literary sense;-) & prefer not to parade in the emperor's wardrobe :-D Love ya & eternally grateful;-)

 
allets's picture

With Each Word Selected

the poet bares a little bit more of his innards. Goes with the literary terrain. I read the man with the blue guitar out loud a few days ago - and got snagged on "...a shearsman of sorts..." I take out the sharpeners, weild my shears lavishly or humbly or with tongue in cheek or simply simple and slice away; a shearswoman of sorts :D I adore this poem. :S