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At The Sunflower Farm / Nicole Rushin Photography

This is a practice in letting go of the pen
Freestyle Writing
What it feels like – how it looks
Feel free to pick up where I have left off…
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My muse has gone missing. Damn, can’t I clip her wings?

But that is not really it at all. She is not really gone.

I drift in and out of the space of writing and the space before the writing. The place where life plays out behind the scenes. There are things stirring I cannot always see, the underneath, like the ecosystems conspiring in the dirt.

I see things around me rustling magically as if something is happening over the edge of my sight.

I am in the presence of noticing.

There is something preordained in the wind
Something pre-said that wants to be told
The door is cracked
Three robes hang – they stir
I was blown into this house
I don’t know who they belong to
There are chests full of clothes
They don’t belong to me – sweaters and blankets
I catch a glimpse of their stories
Hear them in fragments
Do they want to be noticed or told?
Laundered or washed of their dirt?
Stories and memories are not like dust
They stain our clothes
Cannot be washed or told away…

As I was watering plants this morning I was thinking of the book I want to publish. A collection of my favorite pieces of poetry, and photography from my Dream-Speak pdfs.

Do I call it Dream-Speak? Or is there a better word for a collection of words?

I came inside, poured more coffee and watched the cream swirl (my own rule – I never stir). The title The Glass Menagerie came into my head and then it left as I shut the refrigerator door.

Later, in my inbox was Garrison Keillor’s update from The Writer’s Almanac with a poem called Clover by Tennessee Williams. I never even knew he wrote poetry.

Just hearing and seeing Tennesse Williams’ name sends my mind into this place of story and telling. It is not even a place of writing, but of listening intently on the edge of my seat.  He takes me to this place before the writing. I so want to pick up a pen, but then let go of the urge.

There is a pre-telling he captured that makes me feel as though I have lived inside his plays.

A menagerie was a collection of animals popular before modern day zoos. They mainly belonged to the aristocratic and could have held a menagerie of birds or an assortment of wild animals.

I suppose one could have a menagerie of words if they had claws or even feathers. Maybe talons with leather strapping or exotic birds with clipped wings.

My muse like a boomerang flies back at me again and again.

What good is a menagerie of caged words?

That’s not it! That’s not the right word at all!

Maybe white clover
Words strung together like party lights
High power lines over roads
And highways 
That never end
Poetry is the place 
Where my Dreams are given
Free rein to Speak! 
To let go
Let go of the pen
Go back to the place
Before the words begin

I could go on and on like this…
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Nicole Rushin signature - displayed as a pic
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