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  • Writer's picture Brian E Pearson


Each morning, since retiring, I begin my day reading and writing. What comes out is rarely profound, but it does paint a quick sketch of what's going on inside, sometimes just in passing, sometimes deserving a second look. Often this writing takes the form of lines that could be the start of something more ambitious--a poem or lyrics for a song. This week started with what, for me, is an old question--what to do with all the creative impulses we feel? Are they meant for the world, or are they simply what keeps us going? Here are the lines ...

I fear I'm drifting

while I'm here sitting still

I need to act

while I've got time to kill

I have this song

it's like a whippoorwill

But here I sit

until the time is filled

So why this push

if there's no oath to keep

no curtain call

no death-defying leap

And why this rush

and why this tourniquet

And why this torrent

flowing out of me

Today's the day

when I must do, or die

like every other

until the well runs dry

to dig in deep

and make no alibi

or linger long enough

until this passes by

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