Shakespeare did not write for himself, he wrote for an
audience and his inspiration was a ticket booth, not to
better mankind or tear open his heart. He wrote what
others WANTED him to write.
His craft was for a croft.
The taxman put his quill to work.
And that was enough.
Frankly, it still is for me.
Inspiration deserves more respect.
Yes, imagination resides in the unexpected:
That gut-flinch as we heard the news,
A splinter of light corrupting dust,
Rusty, onion breath kisses,
A last embrace that never was,
Rain on crumbled tombstones,
A homeless, one legged man who smiled,
Mottled iceburg lettuce
Or the shrapnel imprints of internal warfare…
Life demands its recording of
Sirens in the night or…
Sirens of the sea.
But one word can coat a canvas,
Leave it flushed with hues,
Bleeding its endless mess of
Blues on blues on blues.
Art is not a why!
Art is a why not?
I have shed layers, without guise,
Heaving thoughts and purpose,
Opened veins that were drought dry,
Elixing madly the image,
Lost in a tangle of creation.
And yet that beginning was not mine.
I trust my pen’s instincts and
Do not waste ink on indolence
Nor wrap poems in spotted paper,
But pound at lines with intent,
Bent on delivering my best.
I stand in gratitude for the
Muses in flesh, who delve out
Snipets and crumbs and ask us
To design then build a finish.
Ride me hard, taskmasters,
Lay those crops on my back.
I enjoyed the direction you took me,
For though the journey was unfamiliar
The land jointly crossed became ours~
**For Carol Brown's "Write for Yourself" Contest, which is something I do even when
I am writing for a contest. ;)