A Poem by Jane Tawel
December 28, 2020
I love to poke the “create” button.
Such chutzpah to think I have that gift.
And while I watch the swirling rainbow,
While waiting, not with patience,
But with expectant need
I think of the Greats, and trembling yearn
To hide behind their shadows once again.
And then I dare anyway.
To take a flutter at this desk,
Is rather like a gamble,
Where I am always betting against the house.
I hope my tics and tells won’t distract
From thoughts that try to cheat me from my life.
I let the chips fall where they may —
Will it be prose or rhyme today?
And out it pours like dreideled coins,
My soul to chance this wager with my mind.
It seems a rather small thing,
This time I take to make words sway.
And though my jig is awkward,
And graceless is my tongue,
I’ve entered into meaning
In The Great Dance we all are from.
And just by trying, I Am Become.
became. become. has become.
Becoming. Will Become…?
For whether thoughts are light or dark
There are in words, that divine spark
Where our imagination lives,
And where our hearts peek out of hiding
Like sprites and fairies. Like supernatural beings.
Words, like gods once seen.
For humans leave no trace behind
‘Cept dust and shards and love.
Yet on a tattered page or flickering screen
We join our solitary syllables
into an Us Eternal.
© Jane Tawel 2020