The Lament of the Writer

For national poetry month, I thought I’d try my hand at a genre I haven’t played with much, other than prayers. Let me know if you are writing, too. Some mutual encouragement is always good!

So, here’s my first run at it.  I found myself staring at a pile of emails, demanding my attention, each asking me for something written… a proposal, a report, an application.  I have this blog and the Ephesians Project.  Oh, and a paper that’s due TONIGHT.   As one who writes on demand for a living, coming to a dry place is hard.  And that’s where I’ve been.  This lament comes from that barren place:

Pulled in twenty directions but only wanting to go the twenty-first

Swaddled by the expectations of people waiting for that thing

You know, that thing that they wanted yesterday-

Even if they didn’t bother to tell you they wanted it by then

Watched, it seems, every moment of every day,

by one waiting for a moment to interrupt

to ask for something else, something more, something better

something I may not have to give

Buried.  But not dead…



Liberation used to come at 5.

No longer.  More pulling and wanting awaits.

Or maybe at 11

But sleep is a fickle friend

late arriving and too soon leaving

rarely wanting to engage in deep communion

Somewhere under the white noise, I hear it:

A call.  Or maybe it’s a cry.  Or maybe it’s crying

But it’s there.  A very human sound that wants to be heard over the noise.

I know that voice.

It is the voice that sings and laughs and cries deeps within

As I strip away the layers of conversation with people and machines,

It resonates, vibrating with the energy of the creator

It echoes the joy of birth and rebirth

It speaks

It stirs






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