My muse showed up at sunrise
with a grin I didn’t trust,
whispered, “Let’s write brilliance!”
though my brain was gathering dust.
My notebook’s overflowing~
every page a scribbled plea:
Why do ideas strike at midnight
but ignore me during tea?
I chase down inspiration
like a tumbleweed in flight~
it rolls off toward the mountains
while I trip in morning light.
My drafts are wild stampedes,
every sentence bucking free;
I wrangle them with coffee
and a whispered, Mercy me…
psyches of all bards and writers
synchronized crowd swimming in waters
yuppies and brave souls unheard by all
chanting audience in an imaginary stall
hearts we hide as words unfold
on paper and scrolls, always young never old
lasting ink or cellphone battery so strong
of thinkers and scribblers of prong
genetics of poetry or honed skill
your poetry in a song that inspires and fill
only the strong survives and remain
filaments of musing, project and pertain
poetic justice is justice for all
or no balance like a bouncing ball
ever and never will an artist to surrender or fall
triumphant in all writings, big or small
remnants of your undying soul
yours is the scepter and crown and tiara
like winner takes all
Seeking a shred of purpose
to pass the remaining time
or play with dark spots
and flashes of thunder
and dreams of vespers?
Tenderly rummaging through memories of bones
and promises of fragile enchantments.
Who awaits us in the elder's shadow?
Who awaits us, winged spirits with swollen faces
after we have consumed the last refuge
of weary scribblers?
Once upon a time there was a wise seeker of sincere glances,
who eavesdropped on the wind, trail of voices of
sleepless bankers and spied the metal-coloured auroras,
to unearth the treasures of the caravans
of eager young people, never attentive
to the fate of the objects of memory.
He found no joy, but fell asleep
on the bankers' doorstep
with the complicit gaze of the young
The notable sages I've read all ponder themselves trivial...
limited scribblers I've read almost all present themselves eminent...
Did I learn a worthy trade? Study war as a warrior?
Was I a helper, a first responder,
nurse, nanny, priest, pumpkin farmer,
a horny handed laborer,
did I lecture nitwit’s on the liberal arts or economics?
None of the above.
Yet I claim the kinship of all these,
my esteemed traveling companion:
Master Walt Whitman agrees.
I extol all of you America! All scoundrels,
wasters, longshoremen, coopers, sail makers,
beef butchers, mechanics, farriers, truckers,
tech analysts, grocers, grifters and daytime hookers.
I offer all of you my theoretical talents
and apply them generously to you,
the heaving throngs, and huddled masses.
Praise be and glory to all impractical scribblers,
liars, disgraced philosophers, tricksters, and drunks.
We poets celebrate ourselves,
save the world for ourselves alone,
warn of the terrible dire in the good,
the terrible good in the dire, while distrusting both,
yet still and all, disliking our own works
even more.
A Wondering What to Write......
a wondering
at what to write was I,
really pondering
at my station,
of trying to push on through
a thing that all scribblers hate;
a writers-block of all things.
no what, when or where
not a skerrick from me pen;
all inspirations gone Kaput!
only naught, not a thing, zilch!
really nothing to inspire the urge
in order
to let letters, flow accordingly.
then;
in a flash of sheer brilliance,
it’s back to basics go!
for if I were to be a great poet so
of some description,
and free from inhibitions be,
I would describe my feelings so
in a highly imaginative way.
or if I was a troubadour;
from my pen would come
lines of love in a lyrical sense.
then again you see;
even a sonnet spinner I would be
of fourteen lines laid poetic down
would do for me.
suddenly!
right there;
there is hope in the air
of becoming a yarn spinner of note,
of weaving and rambling on with quotes,
‘bout tall tales of distant pasts
with a yarmulke on me head.
So here was I my friend
a wondering what to write….
Francis Cooper - Mac
Avoid scribblers who say,
"Everything has been said."
For they have lost their way
And joined the Writing Dead.
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