When does it become a poem?
When I tumble the words around in my head like rough gems,
Examining them for facets
I can polish?
When I spill them onto the page,
Inky bright, flashing light?
Or when you pick them up and carry them,
Cats eyes
In the pocket of
Your memory?
susan baumann
scbpoetry
So if you put a bass player, writer, designer, ideophile, and a couple of bananas in a blender, this is what you'd get.
Overture
There it is.
The threshold.
The starting gate.
The point of
contact.
Clean gold.
Awaiting ignition from some spark of
imagination.
Everything-hinges-on-this-moment-in-time.
And this one.
And this.
So it’s been awhile
Since I did any meaningful writing. Or took on a challenge. Or stayed up for 24 hours. But I recently celebrated my 60th birthday, and I wanted to make sure I hadn’t checked out when I wasn’t looking. So here I am. Determined to fold my words into 24 white paper cranes while the earth completes a pirouette.