A Rose and a Writer collide

As a writer, there are times when my mind is too clouded to put anything of value on the page.  Yes, I’ll write, but it’s material that finds a home in the “drafts” folder on my laptop.  I often reread those pieces and wonder to myself what I could have been thinking, yet they almost always end up being a piece of something else.  Breaking through the fog to get back on track is a critical step for serious writers; unfortunately some get stuck and never are able to move on.  I’ve put this piece together to demonstrate one way I was able to break free from a bout.  I was going along just fine in a period where romantic poetry was mostly what I did, but something slowed my efforts.  An unexpected diversion to the other side helped me regain my sense of direction; that other side being simple prose.  I hope that other writers can find the same thing I discovered in the process.  Our work is inspired by our muse, and in my case my muse is my wife.  She is the reason I dig deeper, feel more passionately, and reach for the unreachable.

The Verse

I watched intently in passive silence

A fresh rose petal floating upon a brisk winter wind

Undercurrents feeding its journey in uneven bursts and shoves

Nature assaulting its fragility, but it wafted away unharmed

And as careless as it appeared it simply vanished

In silent meditation my thoughts drifted

Thinking of moments ahead and behind

The thought that the majestic rose commands

For as an expression of love, the rose holds no counter,

It reigns supreme, color not-withstanding

And the scent, it enraptures the beholden

Weaving a tapestry of blissful pleasure to the senses

Lovers beholden to its reverence and magic

Observation of the petals bursting forth from their bud

Spreading ever so lightly achieving a beautiful crescendo

That event is a what’s known as a “moment”

An iconic space in time which repeats itself many times over

Yet, with each iteration adds something relevant and new…

When, alas a sharp wind brings me crashing back

I’m feeling that the moment has escaped my pen

I can only smile in disbelief as, as, as I think

A faded image when nature shared things for my eyes to see

Each passing second brings me closer to being silenced

For in my haste, I think I may have stumbled

Words have escaped me; anxiety creeps in

The slight panic, perhaps the shadow of an unseen test

A crossroads with many pathways on the horizon

No flowery lines emerge to complete my work

I am without direction, hopefulness sinking quickly

A dark stormy cloud of despair muscles its way into my space

On the precipice of nothingness

And so I wait, and re-read, and ponder

Shifting the pen to a clean sheet

A composition, nay but a proclamation waits

So it was that these words emerged as ink…………..

Retreat into Prose

My dearest lady, there is nothing easier in my life than saying “I love you.”  Certainly it is as pure and as genuine as any man could love a woman.  Every thought in my waking day has a piece of you woven into its fiber, blended into its color, and scented with your perfume.   You were the one that carried the key to my soul.  When years had passed and I was simply content with being a simple man with simple expectations, you arrived.  The part of my soul which had been at rest for the many years I simply existed was unshackled and encouraged to roam free.  Each moment spent with you has no measurement, for nothing else can compare to it.  You are my certain escape from the outside world and I gather comfort from your touch.  I bask in your vision, drinking in the eternal beauty that you so vehemently deny, yet I understand your modesty.  I have done great things because you have inspired me to do so.  Your old soul has awakened the long-dormant seeds deep within my soul and they have sprung forth with a new life and a host of wonderful things.  These words pale in their attempt at telling you how I feel.  Without you, life would be dim and meaning would give way to function and tediousness.   My world is a better place with you in it and my words have oft served as a testament for professing those truths.  And upon the occasion when the greyness of then, invades the magical kingdom of now, all I have to do is to retreat into my own subconscious……..

Rebirth of the Idea

And as certain as the rising of the sun, my verse returned

My hands held captured by the strings of my heart

Words did once again flow and all was right again

For nary has the skill of working the loom left me from my weaving

Whimsical twists now share the stage with the wind

The petals of fallen roses dance to my direction

Prose, like the match to the fire

Now again takes a backseat to the wandering rambles of a fool in love

Deep inside my mind, flashes of lightning mingle with the moonlight

Oceans reveal their cascading colors and I see your eyes

The morning sun sends splinters of light across the sky to warm my body

Your presence is felt as the morning dew releases and draws away

Perhaps I am in heaven where all things are evident and possible

That magic that exists when you smile

Words are but doorways while love is perpetual

And as the bloom of the rose burst forth once again

Another “moment” is born, another love story begins

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R J Schwartz

I write about everything and sometimes nothing at all.I'm fascinated by old things, rusty things, abandoned places, or anywhere that a secret might be unearthed.I'm passionate about history and many of my pieces are anchored in one concept of time or another.I've always been a writer, dating back to my youth, but the last decade has been a time of growth for me.I'm continually pushing the limitations of vocabulary, syntax, and descriptive phrasing.

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