Just a Thought

Preface (Setting The Stage)

It was there just a heart-beat ago
Dancing on the tip of my tongue,
On the very edge of coalescing
Into the semblance of a ghost
Almost taking form.

Prologue (Get On With It)

It was there and then it was not.
And it was good, so very, very good,
Good enough to shake the literary world,
And stand it on its cob-webbed stodgy head.
Its future usage was yet unknown.
But it was good enough to keep
Tho apropos of nothing.
Where will it take me?
Where will it lead?
No time for silly questions.
Get on with the task at hand.
But it was so full of promise,
Perhaps the beginning of one thing
Or the ending of another.
Will it be a keystone or a plinth?
So swept up I was with multiplicities
It could be one of many things
Hidden in a world of possibilities or
Lost in a universe of probabilities.
It all depends.

Part 1 (The Birth Of A Notion)

It came to me in a sudden flash
Of random neurons and faded photographs,
So many bright and shiny things
Flashing past my eyes
I need but reach and grasp my choice
But they come too fast
And they come too many
Vanishing before my mind or muscle can react
And I am left with nothing.
Was this dazzling trinket
The seed of something new
So full of starry potential
Bubbling to be free
The perfect capstone for this thing
That plagued me for moments or days
Needing only the final flourish
To put an end to it
And call it ‘Finished’

Part 2 (Come Watson The Game Is Afoot)

Like I said, It was good.
It was just a thought,
The merest ghost particle of an idea
Flickering in an out of existence
And it was mine to give it voice.
Did I say it was good?
I was shocked by its brilliance,
Dazzled by my good fortune to have found it,
I clung to it in the hope
That I might make it mine
That I might make it speak?

Part 3. (Disaster Looms)

Something happened,
Something terrible and frightening
With many dire implications
Leaving me standing here
Pondering this poor Yorick
Staring eyeless from my hands
So meaningless save in memory
Begging to be re-animated
With strings of a master puppeteer
It vanished in a magical display
Of smoke and mirrors
Leaving me to wonder
Where and why it fled.
Has age or infirmity robbed me
Of the wit to understand
Or the power to articulate the essence
Of this new and fleeting outlier?
Ever uncertain of myself
I had this pressing need to get it down,
Secure it on a page,
Label it and pin it under glass
Before it spread its wings
And flew away.

Part 4. (Hocus Pocus)

And in the time between thought and action
It floated away, vanished,
Scattered like dandelion parasols
Dancing on a summer breeze
Sailing up and away
To wherever such things go
Or as a falling star
Caught at the corner of my eye
Trailing light in a fading arc
Across the coal-black sky.
It was gone
Before it had time to be.
Stilborn .

Part 5. (Lost In A Lost World)

Now here I am,
Staring at this fragmentary piece
Of half-written line or verse,
Or, God forbid, a blank, accusing page
At a loss for what I should do next.
I struggle to follow the path
That lead me here.
If I could retrace the steps
To find what now is lost
Perhaps just perhaps
I might stumble upon that elusive
Word or phrase that so intrigued,
So delighted my senses
Once upon a fleeting time.

Part 6 (Playing The Game)

I know this muse is fickle.
Perhaps she likes to tease
And taunt me with possibilities.
She flashes hot then cold,
So coy at first, displaying a delicate ankle
Or a smooth bare ivory shoulder
Then darting away to taunt me.
We play this literary hide-and-seek
Until one or the other
Gives up in surrender
Or flight

Part 7. (Playing Hard To Get)

If I put her aside for a time
And play the jilted suitor,
My muse may well reconsider,
Give up her wanton ways
And so, return.
When she does, be quick.
Pin her to the page
And secure her meaning
Before she takes flight
And vanishes once more.
She is fickle and feckless
And likely to flee
Unless I am more agile
Than she.

Epilogue (Once More Into The Breach)

I’ve been down this winding road before
Tasted sweet victory and bitter defeat
Wrestled with elusive thoughts
Chased will o’ the wisps
And phantom ghosts
Till my muse or I
Grow weary of the game.
And succumb to some conclusion
Where the seed of something new
Is Still-birthed into oblivion
Or takes root and grows.
Then I can put an end to it
And call it ‘Done’.