I had decided I was going to write, and poems are a good start – they require little stamina. An hour’s worth of train from Leuchars to Edinburgh provided a reel of half-scenes, and ample time in which to shape them. The first page of my new “I’m going to write things” book was Untitled, but no longer blank.
Untitled.
A blank page
What we fear
What we crave
Lines provided
To cage your life
A tree of possibility
Fruit half-formed
Outlines in our minds
But never real
Or filled with flesh
Or juice
Or seeds
As years flow downstream
Paralysed by the choices
We prayed for
Never meeting pen with paper
In case what you make
Cracks that false mirror
Takes away one lazy dream
Children chasing soap bubbles
Fleeting pleasures
Mar the focus
Addictive:
Licking chip-greased hands
Solace:
Crouched on frosted winter sands
Seasons change
We take our time
Continuing
Year on year
In the same vein
Self-inflicted servitude
To our human nature
Expectations that
Shoot the moon
Mammals with minds
Floundering
In a sea of options
A rabbit in the headlights
Of our assumptions
Of other peoples’ expectations.
Joe Blogs, 2017