I am convinced I have nothing to say
and yet, there’s something tickling
my tongue; it’s right on the edge, there,
examining the periphery of the world–
its heavenly blue sky and illusionary soft white clouds–
waiting to leap and then soar like a parachutist.
I command the powerful muscular organ to release
his troops, tell him they are huddled and crouched,
and need to be released and set free.
I say bring them forth before they are swallowed
into that black oblivion or before they
retreat out of sheer frustration.
I plead with the bothersome things: please, Words, sitting on the edge–
waiting to emerge, waiting to fly or soar–
formulate yourselves! Make yourselves known!
Do not linger or delay tomorrow what might be said today.
And poof! Just like that they vanish who knows where
and leave me to wonder what sort they were.
Befuddled, I can only speculate: Were they sweet?
Could they have eased someone’s pain?
Or were they salty with the potential to season and spice?
‘Tis true, they could have been the sour or bitter kind,
causing a caustic, pungent display; I lost some words today;
they must have been misplaced, mislaid.
© 2013 Diane Landy