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