Milk
Around ten years ago I caught the poetry and creative writing bug. For many years I wrote poems, short stories, and long stories, as if I had to capture every word that ever existed on paper. I may as well have been writing a dictionary. Non-sequitur: I do still find dictionaries to make good reading.
Then I hit a dry spell. Since 2000, I have been lucky to commit a few hundred creative words to paper in a year. I’m not entirely sure what happened, I just haven’t seemed to have the creative bursts that I used to.
Lately, I have been changing careers, a task that I am not finding to be as easy or cut and dry as one could hope. During this process I have found my muse resparking in short bursts. Below is a poem that has percolated for months, since my mother told me of my step-father holding a day-old lamb for the first time. It is quite an experience if you have never had the opportunity. One thing to mention is that a bummer lamb is a lamb whose mother has died or abandoned it.
Milk
passive silent bummer
echoed by hawks cry
red stillborn summer
late lambs in the sky
20060623Milk
