“Writing is, by definition, an optimistic act.” Michael Cunningham
Then write in the white rapids and dangling from parasails,
bungee cords, high-dive boards, a crocodile’s jaws.
Write in the middle of the jungle even as night
falls through small rustles awake in the underbrush
and a not too distant tiger roars (if tigers do,
before they pounce, about which I’m none too sure
but who will argue it in those dire, possibly final moments?)
If instead, a nightmare
wakes you in the deep dark
turn on your light and write.
If you find you can’t write, at least read something
Written by someone else, someone who felt
optimism like a chant, a spell on paper,
an invocation to bring it back
once upon a time and happily,
ever after…
Puff Of Smoke Poems 