A Song of the Unformed Verse
Midword Rapture
I am the writer mid-phrase
my quill a star paused in its arc
Ink lingers half written
neither carved nor dissolved
A spark of half born whirls
in the wide chambers of my spirit
not yet a stanza
but a pulse of something grand not written
The world sings with me
its bustle, its shine, its endless weave
A flood of soul's streams close to
the writer's keen hand
the boy's bold laugh
the elder's calm gaze
the poets fleeting vision
They merge and they blaze
each a light in the great fire
each a world within the worlds embrace
I am the bridge between memory's ache
and the pages unwritten oath
My soul a beacon turning
bound to no single star
The next line calls yet I dwell
held in this vivid stillness
each breath a hymn to the unpenned
the yet to bloom
Oh, fellow writers do you sense it
the swell of life in the mid-word
Where the spirit freed
roams fields of endless maybes
I hold no chart no scroll
only the rhythm of my halted quill
the earths deep song below
the heavens boundless arms above
In this instant I am all instants
past and future fused
the potter's unformed clay
the mariners untied rope
I ponder, I dream, I am
mid-phrase mid-thought ablaze
The cosmos unfurls
and I it's scribe
sweep ever forward
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
Tim is an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. He writes about rural life, family, and the places he grew up around. His poetry and essays have appeared in Bloodroot and Coal Dust, his latest book.
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Comments (3)
Magnificent work! Go Tim! ☺️
So relatable as a fellow writer. Absolutely loved this piece.
Beautifully written. The image is nice too, it enhances the experience.