The Bones
The Bones
I sometimes sit staring
At an empty page with
With angst in the hollows
Of my stomach, frightened
That I won’t be able to
Fill the space with sage
Words and colorful imagery
Afraid the fountain has run dry
And the muse has skipped town
Leaving me mute and empty
The fear lasts a moment or two
And then I harken back to
Writing Down the Bones and
What genius Natalie Goldberg
Laid out on paper thirty-odd
Years ago in my writing infancy
Put your pen on the paper and
Write anything that comes to you
Don’t lift your pen for ten minutes
Just write, just write, just write
No thoughts of punctuation or topic
And it still works for me most times
Colors and textures bubble up
Momentary flashes of subject matter
Waft up to be inhaled and manifest
Into storylines or poetic notions
And I am grateful to that woman
That Jewish Buddhist Nun for
Writing the book that gave me
The confidence and tools to dare
The gods to keep me quiet when
When I just have to write down
the bones...
Copyright © Art Fasbender | Year Posted 2019
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