I have this desire,
no - this need
to write poetry.
To write something
something to transcend this moment.
I desperately search the endless spinning thoughts in my mind
flipping through a photobook of my life,
in my head, searching for the poetry.
Is there still poetry in my life?
Is there poetry in my unfolded laundry?
Is there poetry in my organized pantry?
Is there poetry in the dishes I wash, the children's homework I help them with, the dinner I cooked, the hours I spent away from home working or grocery shopping?
Desperately, I try to find the poetry in my life.
Here, by my desk?
There, by my yoga mat?
In there, where I sleep?
Where has it gone?
When I was young, the poetry came easily
filled with teenage angst
the search for love,
the search for God,
the search for Meaning.
Somewhere, somewhere along the way
the words and I,
I still have this love affair with words.
With paper, and pens, and journals and blogs.
Books half-filled with things I write,
and half filled with blank pages full of what I cannot say.
Piles and piles of these half filled journals,
but where is the poetry?
~ Wendy Josephine McDowell 10/26/12