My Hand Moves

My hand moves.
A thread tugs my frontal lobes.
At the other end,
my ancient brain blazes a light
like a Christmas star
across those hills barely seen.
Maybe the thread spans a river,
vast and microscopic at the same time,
forever and now.

The nature of things
gifts me with joy,
but clogs me with arrogance
so that I am in constant flux,
a cartoon on each shoulder,
each negotiating a place to go.
Gravity will force a flow
that drains the flood plain and
lets my hand move.

Power of Words

dog with pencil and eraser


(pen:; dog:

About Jim Stewart

Writer at Butt in Chair
This entry was posted in Poem, Writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to My Hand Moves

  1. Melissa Shaw-Smith says:

    Very nice! Ah, wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to bypass the ego when we write, or at least the critical brain–from inspiration to finger tips without passing Go!

    • narble says:

      We can get to that place, I think, but we’re human so we make it difficult. The ego is more useful when we seek publication. Otherwise, it’s in the way.

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