Resting on yesterday’s laurels
does not give much to today.
It leaves a vacuous space
where creativity likes to meditate
and rise like daily bread.
Tinkering with clay,
a lesson in form
and, for the potter, function.
Where art and utility
consider ergonomics,
the simply beautiful human thumb,
is where I like to meet my objects.
I fell in love with a glass slipper,
sand sculptures of lizards writhing,
blobs of paint arranged with
that flair that you have
arriving at any moment.
Our home smells of something new,
something hitherto unrecognized.
Rich aromas fill our living room
like your caramel and chocolate,
my cucumber and mint,
like binding glue and old print
meant to absorb a whole afternoon
whittling away on a thick tome.
The air wafts through the curtains
bringing the outside in.
There is something new from the river today,
I want to feel poetic again;
wake my spine, and enliven my brain.
But all I find are echoes of things past
reverberating off the bare walls.
We cannot push the stream,
but need to feel it open and flow.
If I let go of my wants,
live in a poem instead of scratching out words,
I can still visit old haunts
to see what they have to teach me today.
But I need to find new ground,
and sounds, and the stirrings
of creatures that don’t yet have names.
I dig around and come up empty.
I find no message in a bottle,
no voice of reason,
nor whimsical muse.
The truth is I need to do my dishes,
find repose in bubbly water
and other boring chores that I must do.
Today I received a starred review from Kirkus Reviews in the USA!
https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/pj-thomas/waves-1/
“Waves” is available to order on Amazon and here on this website!
Moths are flying from your closet.
To you they are magicians
made of dust and thin air.
Their powdery wings
speaking of holey sweaters,
and cedar chests’ sweet scent,
and all things lying dormant.
The moths are wise enough
to come to the flame,
but they come as Icarus to the sun;
longing, yearning, and burning
into light.