I dangled my thoughts,
where the river meanders,
hoping to recall
what I’d forgotten or lost;
hoping for inspiration,
.
To rid me of doubts,
to encourage new pathways;
quietly asking
for a fresh kind of stirring,
to stimulate new thinking…
.
In all honesty…
.
It gets wearisome
sifting through the labyrinth
of general thought,
the rewards are nominal,
and creativeness suffers…
.
So, eye tried to forge
another path to suit us;
to build a bulwark
around the soft parts of us;
the parts prone to impairment…
.
But this failed as well,
as colors began graying,
blooms began fading,
and everything eye strove for
became a trying battle…
.
But still there was hope
(I thought), in all the struggles;
those testing seasons
challenging every writer
willing to probe the unknown…
.
Foresight moves forward,
searching out hidden treasures
that appear at times
despite how self adjusts to
a shifting rage of echoes…
.
Unmindful of time–
when all self craves is silence–
the brain runs freely,
nips at its own blistered heels
and barks, ‘where’s inspiration?’
.
Then, another voice,
(the one I heard as a boy)
speaks to me softly,
‘trust me, not your intellect,
I will never forsake you,’
.
Then, what’s troubling me becomes clear…
.
richard lloyd cederberg
4/2019
.
The things we carry each waking hour are our thoughts. They are the only weight. Our thoughts are a blessing and a friend, or they rip at us savagely and condemn us. Our thoughts constantly determine whether we are free and happy, or we are burdened and self-consumed.
.
Romans 12:2



       Between the Cracks