The Rev. Doug Matthews sat in his office chair intently studying the computer screen that glowed in front of him. Rose leaned in the door way and sighed. “You're not working on that again, are you, Pastor Doug?”

He nodded slowly and turned in his chair, which produced an uncomfortable squeak. “I'm only going to be here for a few more minutes. Go home — it's past five as it is.”

Rose studied him uncomfortably. “It's just, I don't like you staying here all hours of the night. If I leave before you finish, your liable to stay here late into the night. Come on, Doug,” she said, a little firmer than she had intended.

Doug smiled. “Just a few more minutes, really. You can go, I won't stay past 6:00. I promise.” Rose waved a hand at him and walked off to get her coat. She was a dedicated secretary, perhaps a bit overzealous about his bad habit of staying in the office late, but that was for his own good, he knew. He heard the main office door open and then shut. Good, now he could finish.

He turned back to the text he had brought up onto his screen. Something seemed different about this passage. He leaned closer, taking his glasses off to get a better view. His mind went blank for a moment, and then the realization struck him. This was it. There it was, right in front of him. He spun around in his chair so hard it nearly sent him onto the floor; he dashed up and grabbed his coat in one fluid motion. If he was right, this was it — after nearly fifteen years, he had found it. And not a moment too soon. He had to move quickly.

He raced out of his office into the reception area but stopped when he heard an odd sound. It sounded like someone was sawing something. The power went out, turning the room an eerie amberish color as the emergency lighting sprang into action. Doug's mind whirled as he realized what was going on. It all makes sense — I have to get out of here. Someone else was in the building — that much he was certain of — probably down by the main circuit breaker box in the basement, if the sawing noises had given any indication.

He raced for the door and ran out into the cold, rainy mid-winter night. As he ran to his car, he flipped open his cell phone and called the police. He had no time to waste, but leaving the church to the devices of whoever it was that had broken in was not prudent. He hastily reported the information on the intruder and slammed the phone shut to the protestations that he shouldn't leave. Time was short, and much as he might like to stay, it simply was not an option.

Doug Matthews sped off into the dark wet night with a sinking feeling. He just hoped he'd still be capable of having a sinking feeling in a few hours.

Here's two lines of poesy I've not yet figured out what to do with. Rather than just add it to my scrap heap of half written poems, I thought I'd post it. Hey, I needed something to post tonight.

Have walked the dark wood paneled rooms, smoke filled,
Have seen the wing backed chairs against the wall.

LII. Silence walks softly
And lurks behind my mind's eye,
Careful! No more — no.

LIII. Tick the clock tocks soft,
And time tick rolls onward tock,
And I tick watch tock.

LIV. The snow melts slowly,
Old remnants of lighter times,
Flows down the hill now.

I need to write. I need some time free of distractions to write — and not to write something “practical,” but to see where the muses will take me. If it doesn't seem too strong of metaphor, I feel creatively constipated. I have ideas galore that need to be followed through on, but not the time and energy (at the same time) to do any of them. I need to get them out onto paper and see what can come of them. Even if they didn't accomplish anything, perhaps I'd at least be able to move on to better ideas.

I think I might try some experimentation here on asisaid for the moment. We'll see what happens.

I need to get away from distractions for awhile. I have written previously about my desire to write some larger works. Specifically, in October 2004, I wrote that I wanted to write a play and a non-fiction book, among other things. Since then, I have written one very brief and one somewhat longer play (the latter successfully adhering to the Unities, too.). That was a good start, but I have learned a lot since then (and through the experience of writing those works) and I think I know how to write a drama that is quite a bit better than my first attempts. I just need some free time.

Similarly, I have a much better perspective on book writing now. Although I've not even come close to writing a book, I do know clearly what I want to write about and my specific points. I have a lot of the chapters drawn out, so all that I need is time to do research and figure out the best way to explain the points. I'll tip my hat just a bit: the book will be on theology, but aimed at those who don't spend all their time studying theology. Again, I just need some free time.

What I really need is a free multi-day stay down at Big Cedar, on Table Rock Lake, so that I could just spend some time writing my thoughts and doing other writerly things. I need to ditch cell phones and e-mail for a few days too (well, as a sysadmin, I can't really do that, but I can at least limit my contact with such infernal devices).

One of these days.

L. A stream forgotten,
Yet it still flows, will anyone recall
Its existence — ever?

LI. The tree falls noiseless,
No one listening to what passed.
One bird lacks a nest.

LII. Ripple, ripple, the water
Flows by me as I write tonight,
What springs from that muse?

XXXXVII. Anticipation,
A rushing stream runs by me,
Where do those waves go?

XXXXVIII. Thoughts drift like a kite,
Quiet, lest I stir the night,
Lower from this great height.

XXXXVIX. A fish once read Twain's
Huck Fin. He never finished.
He had finite time.

XXXXIV. Tattered, it flutters,
“Is this all there was for me?”
Quoth the butterfly.

XXXXV. Late summer evening,
Not as musical as before,
Bugs sing their last songs.

XXXXVI. Was it yesterday,
That summer's joy passed by me,
While I looked elsewhere?

“So like an empty coffee cup in June,
The winds of time blow me away too soon,
And so I tremble, question as I fade,
What does a life once lived do as a shade?
As weary sands do shift from dune to dune,
My melody is rift for a new tune.

The clock strikes now, why not tomorrow?
Its sound leaves me with naught but sorrow.”

The people pass, their heavy bags in tow,
As if the winds ne’er rain out a show,
“To shame! To shame! A shade have I become
To me full unawares – whilst beats life’s drum?
Please stop, oh death worn drum! Bring on the lyre!
Extend the wick where burns the fearsome fire!

The clock strikes now, why not tomorrow?
Its sound leaves me with naught but sorrow.”

“A little here I swung at hopes of glory,
Far more I gave to live in money’s story,
I conquered many things, enlarged my realm,
A master of my life I steered the helm!”
What waits for you, old questioner, what port?
What’s left? What mark is left of your great court?

“The clock strikes now, why not tomorrow?
Its sound leaves me with naught but sorrow.

“From days came weeks, from weeks came years misled,
A promise for the next, unkept, unsaid.
Unnoticed for some greater good, I stayed
Upon the safer path I had long strayed,
Further moving myself from my hoped goals,
Ignoring them brought me to greater tolls.

The clock strikes now, why not tomorrow?
Its sound leaves me with naught but sorrow.”

The chimes vibrate the ‘bandoned coffee cup,
It rolls along where he had hoped to sup,
A mix of blinded force and choice did lead,
To this a finished act, unopened deed.
Planned not to fault the thing, the point was missed,
And left to cry once more behind the mist,

“The clock strikes now, why not tomorrow?
Its sound leaves me with naught but sorrow.”

XXXXI. A stream babbles on,
Night slips into a new morn,
It is time to move on.

XXXXII. Moving. Seem to be,
But wasn't I hear last year?
Maybe I've not budged.

XXXXIII. Five, Seven, Five. It goes
simply. The Haiku cares not,
It just records thoughts.