Poem: Song of the Slug


Song of the Slug

Sluggish. Not quite right,

but not wrong enough to name the beast,
if beast it is.

Not pleasant,
for a man who likes to leap,
inspiration-driven into the abyss.

Driven. You like that. You like the energy of it.
The excitement,
the tightrope dance,
the lack of net as you leap
with the sureness of a child without wounds.

But not today.
Today you are heavy.
Today you will move slow,
older than your soul,
older even than your scars,

Utterly uninspired,
but able still.
Able enough
and no more.

you will make few mistakes.
Plodding has its advantages.
Work will get done.
It always does,
even in the place of the dead
that is your head this morning.

This you know:
death is never permanent.
This you have learned,
an article of faith well proven in a life of scars.

You know,
this will pass.
You will dance again.
You will leap into the abyss singing Wagner and Bowie
mistakes flying like fireflies around you,
joyful again.

I know the drill.
Not to wait.
But to work in faith,
sure of the return
of the muse.

About this poem

I am slow and sluggish this morning. I have no idea if I am coming down with something, if depression is sneaking in, or if I just didn’t get enough sleep.

But my work will get done. It always does.

The picture was taken in the quarry across from my house. I like it’s almost Monet like quality.

Bowie and JJ Cale are playing on the radio at my favorite diner. I have a weakness for Wagner Operas, even though I can’t understand a word.

This began as an essay, but on my third cup of coffee, it became a poem.

And there you go – path to a poem.



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