Margins
5:30 mountain dark
and I’m on the porch,
my coffee in a mug
with mother on it
holding a gun
the only time in her
84 years she shot one.
I open a fancy
journal Murdy made
me, to somehow
write myself
back to myself.
Gonna lock in
and crack, discover
something new
in the dusty corners
of my tumult
kind of vibe.
I grabbed the wrong
journal as I tiptoed
the quiet house.
It’s an old one,
already filled
front to back
with my pleading,
raging, documenting,
and navel-gazing.
There is no room
for a new thought.
So I read my past
repetitions,
listen to the garbage
truck and the redbirds
chip hello
to this day, in which
I won’t be able to help
just being my
same ol’ self, again.
8 thoughts on "Margins"
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Yes! Love “to somehow/write myself/back to myself…”
Lovely begining with a sigh and a chuckle: “5:30 mountain dark/and I’m on the porch,/my coffee in a mug/with mother on it/holding a gun”Yessss…”to somehow/write myself/back to myself.”
Love: “no room/for a new thought.”
“Margins” is such a good title for this musing about writing now and in the past.
I agree, what a great title!
Yes, writing in the margins of yourself! Maybe the fates are saying you aren’t done with that you just yet.
« It’s an old one,
already filled
front to back
with my pleading,
raging, documenting,
and navel-gazing.
There is no room
for a new thought. »
Expect in the margins…
“So I read my past
repetitions,
listen to the garbage
truck”
great capture that’s familiar to this audience!
A delight!