Roughing It, Too

DSC00139What is. . .
the star that guides
the scribe’s broken course
from inspiration’s fertile folds,
where visions in perfect phrases fly
generously off the flint of imagination
to the fearfully empty place
where his Huck Finn lingers. . .
abandoned.

And whose is. . .
the pen that plots
a man’s hopeful ascent
from shivering in warm company
to striding against gales of defeat
that rage yet through Aurora’s ruin. . .
the same rocky terrain
that Twain tested,
and by his own reckoning
failed.

Esmeralda,
there’s fortune
in your rugged place…
just underfoot they say.

Soon, the blinding stars
will rise above your barren slopes
and another writer
will pull on working clothes
and mine for words. . .
again.

Don Anslow, 11/13/14

First Love

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Here it was again,

the first blush of love

unfettered by doubts, or fears

or personal politics…

the wondrous sensation

so casually waved off as infatuation

by a world of jealous cynics

who should be so lucky

as to have such a reckless,

divine emotion

pulling their hearts

into foolish and joyful places.

 

D. Anslow