Posted in introspection, poetry, writing

One Morning

One Morning  I found the real poem in the silence, the moment between songs that sits in the lungs like held breath.  I could write about the shape of the clouds, the gray cascading over the awakened sun as I drove to work that morning.  Could write about the internal reaction to the scene, the music speaking to me, me singing,  the release at the final beat.  But I don’t need to write it;  analyze the living of it with overwrought introspection, forcing words to rehash  something no one else witnessed.  Instead, I move on.    —Leanne Rebecca

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Posted in art, poetry, writing

Anything

Anything Driving in a car and it's raining. I touch all the buttons on the radio anything but talking only commercials, radio shows, white noise of Saturday mornings when you didn't quite force the body to sleep long enough. We're going to walk the mall, anything to leave the house and stir the blood, to move the mind out of the place where thinking's bad too much, too fast that it sounds like static.

I’ve eaten nothing but cookies for the past five days. That’s what happens when you make them on Christmas Eve and double the recipe because your mom told you to and end up with a full box of leftovers because you made too many cookies. I think I’ll go for a run today.

I wanted to post this poem yesterday. I’d set my intention the night before: I will write a poem on Saturday morning. But somehow I slept in and before I knew it I was out of the house, starting my day, and I’d forgotten about poetry completely. It’s a rare occurrence–me forgetting about poetry–but I’d like to think there’s some meaning behind it.

Happy Sunday!

–Leanne Rebecca