I lit a candle tonight. It has three wicks and each flame is for someone. They flicker in an irridescent golden light that permeates the room with jasmine I read a poem from my collection of unpublished works, and thought about all the writers whose words trail off into the vapors of invisibility never reaching the eyes or lips of another being. It can be a daunting loneliness to have such talent and remarkable colourtry go unrecognized. And yes, I make up words. Words that are a combination of noun and verb to express motion in the universe of literature. Words that might exist in other languages far better than what is offered in the English dictionaries.

These days of timelessness, rain, and wanton desires to step into the articulating fields of expression have brought me to an aching presence among the writers in the mist. You are not alone you are in good company with all the dreamers that move the atmosphere. We set the tides and widened the shores just by writing. I feel you, the world hears you and though no voice answers you back, you matter.

The three wicks of intention melt the wax beneath. It pools in a rose pond of hot liquid much like us as living beings who burn bright leaving an evaporating puddle to ascend into the air to be absorbed into the Prana.

My friend Willie would peel off the curls of a burning candle and feed them back into the waxen pool. Purplonging the life of the candle I suppose, maybe just to play with fire or a zen ritual of sorts but to apply the right pressure so as to not tip the candle or crush the flame out was truly an art form of dexterity. There was nothing mundane about it, his focus was precise. So how does one who writes relate these nuances of observation recalling each detail that emotions, mind heart, soul, and senses present?

Some say read, some say meditate and just breathe the moment in and decode the download from quietude. Can you imagine if you are at a table with kindred writers how you would describe one single moment? Is someone speaking? Is there a reflection from the past that you associate with that precise moment? Conversations continually flood our minds, it reminds me of picking out the bad blueberries from the ripe and ready ones to be eaten. This process brings to mind for me tuning out the noise from a crowded room so I can hear the music playing in a bar. Or walking out into twilight’s late evening hush just so I can hear the wind move the tree branches as the birds sing their evening songs. There are many ways to be inspired and allow the candle to illuminate the page.