When I’m trying unsuccessfully to free write my way into a poem or essay, I often end with what I call a “first line for today.” It’s not intended to go anywhere. It’s a kind of creative throwaway, a stop. Here’s a few examples:
What lies just on the other side of the glass is the life I’ve not chosen
And what are windows but eyes and overcoats
It’s a train wreck, this collision of faith and reflection
Old shoes tell the tale
But once in a while the first line doesn’t want to stop and results in a snatch of writing that leaves me deeply contented:
I sit here enmeshed in my life
The stirring of books and papers and colored ink
The breathing of paintings on the wall
My desk shifts its weight, waiting patiently for my return
and this chair welcomes me—whispers words
of invitation to sink into the deep green rainforest
where inspiration awaits.