but not really
I am still here, and the world still exists—
yet, I have run away, and the to do list is left at home
and the pile at work now lies unattended.
Nearby, the ocean waves crash, and the late afternoon wind blows
and songs and poems and other thoughts stir to life
and may find themselves flung by the Muse
onto my lap, and in need of being expressed
in whatever form may come about today.
Stripped of my daily duties, I find myself light and unburdened,
ready to take in the offerings of the Muse and
wrestle the thoughts that fly through
down onto the page, brought to light
Warrior poet that I am, ready for this battle
it is time to let the fresh wind blow
taking the stink of too many rainy days of late
and wipe away the dust, and move the rubble out.
Begone. I am free.
Down to the bones, down to the simple notes of the melody
the beat of the drum, the clear pickings of the guitar—
time for what needs to be heard, to be written
and nothing else.
Today, not a retreat, but a cleansing, a