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Someone on the street may simply acknowledge another morning by saying, "What a nice spring day", but in a writer's mind such oversight is comparable to offending the grandeur of the Taj Mahal by saying, "Nice tomb." Spring is nature's great revival and in the midst of a world gone financially awry the cost of admission is absolutely nothing. If we neither deter its presence with barriers nor welcome it with blinders, it will make us whole. Each fresh breath we draw displaces the stagnancy of hibernation. While the sun dances warmly upon the skin tulips open their eyes to a new world, and with voices given by angels, their solo invites others to join them in song. An elder oak stands watch over his forest and all who reside there obey his command, for only he who is rooted so deeply in nature is trusted to orchestrate the delicate transformation. He is the conductor of all things magic, molding drab hues of a decayed forest floor into an array of colors that swells with the vibrancy and essence of life. Upon cue the brooks begin to babble and gentle hands impregnate fragrance into a breeze that would otherwise remain barren and forlorn. As if he had done nothing, the elder leans and whispers. "If the miracle of birth does not touch them, what then will move their hearts?" Each occurrence in life impacts us deeply yet we choose to ignore the stroking or bruising of our hearts as if avoidance might effectively change the results. A writer must stay in synch with subtle changes occurring in and around them and can never bow to the temptation that the mere use of words should be recognized a handicap. He or she must convey what otherwise are duties of the senses. Those skilled in the craft routinely succeed, plucking a reader from an existing reality and placing them into a foreign world. Like repotting a plant, the transportation must be seamless and the new surrounding intriguing, because the masses, as a matter of principle, will revolt against knowingly being uprooted. In my cell the chains grow heavier now
and bars surrounding me become completely unapproachable. As
I had dreaded the escape was temporary and my mind remains powerless
against those things intangible but distinctly repressive in
their measures. Only the footsteps of the warden shuffling along
a cold floor can usher such bleakness and despair. The parole
board has denied my request for early release, but I will not
acknowledge his words by turning. My defiant eyes show no emotion
and continue to stare far beyond these walls for this will never
be my home. Still it is only a nice spring day. Dan Beams is a 40-year-old self-described simple man. He lives in a small town in central Illinois, with his wife, Beth, and two children, Allie 15, and Jacob 12. By a strange twist of fate, the loss of his job last year, led to his love of writing. Although this new passion is less than a year old Dan has established a great connection to the intrinsic power of the written word. Writing has again impressed upon him the fact that the key to a successful life is to possess, in great abundance, those things not easily measured. You can read more of Dan's poetry at http://poeticjustice-dan.blogspot.com/ Send Dan a message either directly or using
the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from Dan visit the
Word Catalyst archives or his online
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Leftovers
According to Merriam-Webster it means to fall or
sink suddenly, and while all of us are subject to speed-bumps,
I believe those who create (poets, writers, and artists in general)
experience highs and lows much more profoundly. Perhaps analyzing
the dark cloud that has settled will bring about an opportunity
for escape, but if not, it is better I understand thoroughly
the captor who holds me hostage.
From The Attic
Cheshire Cat
Truly Calhoun
Songs of