Feng Sui of the Written Word
Well past midnight I close my eyes,
and old terrors come to call,
An angel whispers in my ear
as it flies past on ancient wings,
A melody echoes in my heart,
or drops of dew fall from my hair
splashing me with inspiration:
a single word, a turn of phrase,
some piece of spirit that calls out to be heard.
The words fit nicely
into notches in my imagination
where meaning lays itself bare.
I search with a musician’s ear
for the one and only word
that fits there,
The feng shui of the written word.
Years ago
poems spilled out
full of hormones and angst,
suffering and loss,
but now they move slowly,
they kick back and yawn their way out.
They laze in the back of my mind,
in an imaginary hammock
among tall pines in blue shaded mountains
and enjoy themselves,
each poem like contented, well kissed lips
like warm chocolate covered cherries
just waiting to be savored.
© 2007 C. Harter Amos
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