Harvesting Ideas

by Mari Mitchell

Ideas.
So many.
They fill drawers
and boxes
They whisper,
and shout from corners
and jars.

My blanket is heavy with them.
I try to be gentle, but some hit the floor.
I trip over them as I go to the bathroom at night,
I step on sharp words,
I swear at them,
call them names,
make horrible noises at them.
Perhaps...
this is why so many of mine
are dark.

I wish I could write faster
but when I do
it’s lackluster.

It is those words.
The hunt for
the right words
to form a sentence,
a paragraph,
a word to paint what I see,
to display what I feel,
taste,
touch,
hear
what it is I am looking at
close and far away--ideas.

Ideas
linger among stars.
Always above,
and far away.
Although they are there during the day,
show best at night.
lovely things
we will never truly reach.

Stars ideas do not stand still,
as I do not stand still,
I chase them,
tripping,
running,
skipping,
I stand,
Staggering,
linger...
Star ideas not knowing,
not caring,
I do all these things to possess.

And just as I touch them,
I change them.

What was,
will never be what it was,
or could have been.

I try not to crush them.
But some are so big,
or heavy,
it is hard not to.
I wish,
I was a stronger writer.

Some are light
like cotton candy they melt, when they should float.
Others are clouds,
something that is clearly there
or is it that it stands in the way of what is behind it,
keeping me from seeing beyond it.

I like the apple ideas best.
Those I pick
after they have grown big,
bursting with juice.
I take just one,
or pounds.
I can do so much.
Peel,
chop,
bake,
mix them in.
Or I bite into the flesh as is--raw.
Just the idea and my mouth.
My teeth tearing chunks of idea,
chewing,
tasting,
taking it in so that it is a part of me.
I only hope when I am done
it does not turn to dross.

Apples ideas bruise and spread their spoil.
They are always falling.
The trick is to catch them before they hit the ground.