The unvoiced thoughts and ideas of a septegenarian.


on February 19, 2012


Writing is  a challenge, a exercise for one’s imagination and wit. Some people begin writing s as cathartic exercise – a replacement for a shrink. Some couldn’t tell you why they started to do it; they only know they must. Their fingers have minds of their own and frequently take the writer where he never intended to go. Writing is, after all, one mind attempting to speak to another. The writer hopes his words will ring true, bring forth a smile, give cause for reflection. Sometimes that works and sometimes it doesn’t. The writer is left to flounder in a sea of doubt. He is also subject to:



In vain do I search for honeyed words

Melodious, thoughtful, and warm.

Metaphors, similes hidden from me.

If I try to write of hate and desertion

Rancor, and two-timing souls

I’ve nothing with which to compare.

Nor can I convey the feelings evoked

When writing of friendship and love.

Elusive the words that picture their spirit

Wispy are they to capture in verse,

Fleeting, skybound, hidden in clouds.

To write of a loved one, a worthy friend,

 a lesson learned, a truth uncovered.

A challenge to my leaky pen.

Yet can I write of trees and tulips.

Paint pictures of gardens in bloom.

Where are the words that evoke

smiles, delight, understanding

Each time thoughts leap to my pen.

I search long, dig deep, for words

That do not betray the intent of my verse.

With envy, regret, I face the truth

No Shakespeare, John Donne am I.

Your turn – write something.

Julie Rose


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