I honestly believe that if more people picked up a pen (or a paintbrush, a few crayons, a needle and thread or an extra can of tuna) there'd be no room in one's nervous fingers to pick up a handgun. Creative endeavors are therapeutic wonders that I wish everyone could enjoy. But I, like others, sometimes find myself at a loss for words and with a pound less of energy to "create" anything.
There are two times in the year when I promise to make amends of not creating enough: the "New Year" in January (or, depending on the culture, any other month deemed to be the beginning) and the "REAL" New Year's Day for everyone - their BIRTHDAY! Mine begins mid July and to mark this occasion I sometimes write a poem. In 2005, I wrote the following piece questioning my lack of writing and the hope that my new journal would hold a plethora of pleasurable word excursions (just so you know, out of 200 journal pages, only six were punished with my ramblings):
There are two times in the year when I promise to make amends of not creating enough: the "New Year" in January (or, depending on the culture, any other month deemed to be the beginning) and the "REAL" New Year's Day for everyone - their BIRTHDAY! Mine begins mid July and to mark this occasion I sometimes write a poem. In 2005, I wrote the following piece questioning my lack of writing and the hope that my new journal would hold a plethora of pleasurable word excursions (just so you know, out of 200 journal pages, only six were punished with my ramblings):
What happened during those years
When I failed to pick up a pen?
No words were painstakingly written
No parchment was my friend
No hushed secrets did I whisper
No fighting thoughts did I think
Mere sentences were not treasured
No darkened wells lost their ink
Those years are now buried
Scattered deep along a past stroll
My memory fails to remember
Those that are now way too old
But another year is upon me
What new things will it birth?
My journal, alone, will hold them true
Loved and pregnant with their worth.
Copyright - KaVA, Ink - 2005/2009
When I failed to pick up a pen?
No words were painstakingly written
No parchment was my friend
No hushed secrets did I whisper
No fighting thoughts did I think
Mere sentences were not treasured
No darkened wells lost their ink
Those years are now buried
Scattered deep along a past stroll
My memory fails to remember
Those that are now way too old
But another year is upon me
What new things will it birth?
My journal, alone, will hold them true
Loved and pregnant with their worth.
Copyright - KaVA, Ink - 2005/2009
