Jesse Koepke

Well. 

Yes, it’s been too long. I apologize. I could put up several excuses, I’m sure, but those don’t matter. No one is keeping score, no one is tallying the misses, no one is counting it against me; save me, most likely. 

I have, in fact, been trying to write. I’m going to a writers conference in Redding, CA in a couple of weeks, and there’s a writing contest. I’ve banged and whacked out a first draft, and it’s due this Friday. But that’s not the point. The point is to write. The sword is rusty, and my arm is tired and out of shape. 

But. The point is to write. And so I do.

I pine for what was once so grand

And now has fallen in disrepair

Strive and work with fading might

I press on for what once stood

At times I feel the pen’s deep burn

And think I’ve come back home

But when I’ve took up pen to write

I find no words, just ling’ring want

Perhaps it’s like the growing babe

And one day I’ll stand and walk

For now, alas, I struggle on

Fumbling, struggling, to even crawl

Oh! I’ve felt the wind a’blow

Sails full, oceans glad

Now I set my frail gaze

And aim toward horizon’s edge.