Blueberry

    Had I the time and talent I would learn to strum and old front porch guitar.  I would make up songs as I went along, entertaining anyone who happened to linger.  If I had the resources, I'd travel down south.  I would sit in a local café just to listen to the slow, southern accents, feeling my own blood pressure and stress level calm down.

(And I would have some pie).

    Somewhere in the back of my mind I have this running list of things that fall under the category of, one of these days.   Over the years some of the items on this list have changed.  Even the ones that have held on the longest haven't always kept their original position.  As my personal likes and dislikes change, my list makes priority adjustments.  The time of year also affects these items, for as July and August draw near my desire to head to southern states diminishes.

    I have no inclinations towards space exploration, sailing, mountain climbing, or exploring religious philosophies.  The items on my list have always been the simple pleasures, like finding the perfect cookie, learning Italian, to photograph someone's face for a chance of capturing unsullied human expression, or simply sitting with friends and hearing about the things on their list.

    As most of you know, the one thing that has never fallen from my list is to take a little time every day to play with words.  The written word to me holds all of the treasures found within human thought.  Its bounty extends beyond all margins in soft, colorful strokes, or can be as sharp as a single word expressed in a harsh, regrettable tone.

 

   Words, when arranged just right can evolve into brilliant stage plays that pull us through rivers of emotions even though we never once leave our chair.  Words, when sinisterly manipulated by advertisers, can gnaw away at us, forcing us to remember their product.  

     I believe there to be an agonizing plight in the Hearts of true poets.  It is a weight never lifted, a passion fueled by both love and rage.  It is perhaps their very soul slowly leaking through the tip of their pen, leaving behind what some would see as excess droplets of ink but are in fact small fragments of momentary items that once resided on a list.