Have you done any creative writing lately?
He asked in his last letter.
What is writing if it isn’t creative?
Sliding and curving and looping across the page
So that maybe even signing a check is creative,
I’ve done enough of that lately—
And to-do lists on every scrap of junk mail within easy reach
And dentist appointments scribbled diagonally
Across too many dates on the calendar.
And letters—handwritten letters:
Dear Phillip, Dear Reta, Dear Mom and Dad,
Dear Cousin Eddie—
The act of writing itself a creative link
Between me and thee and those near at hand.
Beautiful black on white pen and ink drawings
Of being and doing— day to day musings,
The mundane and the mystical.
A pen stroke here, a pause there—
Laughter, soup, and last Saturday night’s dance
Spilling onto the page in graceful twists and turns—
Intricate connections not meant for the public eye,
The serious and not so serious passersby.
Some aching hearts and insane hopes—
Even absurd one-liners that surely have no meaning
To anyone save the writer and the writee—
Have their cherished place in private collections only:
A cardboard box, a purple folder, a large manila envelope,
A file cabinet with locked drawer.
Or perhaps stuffed in a recycle bin,
Loop-de-loops and fancy scrawl
Soon to be chewed up and
Redistributed as toilet paper—
Words just a memory floating beneath the surface:
Sincerely, Peace, Love you, See you soon,
Spiraling down the toilet—
Creative writing flushed,
Joining God knows what other flotsam and jetsam of life
On the journey toward nirvana.
Glenda for the Poplar Grove Muse