The Medium

They are not mine,

though they come from my mind,

my hand,

my pen.

They are like the wind,

the water in the ocean,

the stars in the sky.

So they are beheld,

I keep them

only briefly;

a tenth of a second

and then they wait

for you.

 

These are not my thoughts.

This electro-chemical flash,

this carnival ride

of energy,

inspiration

and emotion.

This passion,

this disappointment,

struggle and failure;

this all only exists in me

as long as lightning

lives in the sky,

and then it is here.

 

It is on the page.

It is on the screen;

lingering,

lurking,

waiting

for some unsuspecting eyes.

For some fertile mind.

For some soft lips

to speak them,

consume them

assimilate them

and they are alive again.

 

They are not mine,

no.

No more than the wind,

that rushes in from the East

to kiss my face each morning

is mine.

 

No more than the ocean,

whose wave crash on the beach

and wash my feet

as I walk in the afternoon

are mine.

 

No more than all the stars of the sky,

that paint the heavens

and keep me company around my fire

each night

are mine.

 

No,

I cannot claim them,

only share them

and hope

and pray

that they don’t sit idle

too long.

 

 

HG – 2019

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