Do angels come to poets?
Have they ever been?
Yes. My muse is with me always.
Heard but never seen.
Lyrics whispered in my ear.
Songs at their birth.
Enough time given to
write down the words.
Always with me from
morning till night.
Should I accept the poem as my own?
Do I search for someone else to
write the poem down?
My imagination runs riot.
I don’t construct.
My poem forms itself.
Spectator not participant in the process.
Like song and air flowing through the body of a singer.
Pushed and moved by the current of
extraneous forces but
not an entity in itself.
This is an evolution of a poem from the moment the words of a poem are placed on a page to the audience’s reception of a song.
sat down with paper and pen
to write about important things
and what mattered to them.
Thoughts and feelings
were frozen in time.
It didn’t matter if the
words didn’t rhyme.
read the poem and
agreed with what they saw.
Nobody had discussed these things before
so music was added.
A pulse was added to the beat.
They worked hard on it
until they were satisfied
the song was complete.
a choir got hold of the song.
Their conductor knew what to do
to make the music resonate
and make the lyrics ring true.
There was work to be done,
something the choir loved best.
A universal message was written for all
and had to be expressed.
The universal message spoke of
a soul’s need to be free
to express itself and be happy.
Find thoughts behind emotions,
find words behind a thought.
Thoughts tangle on words and
are thus caught.
Sometimes poems and I are not on friendly terms –
The Terror of the Empty Page
I stare at the empty page
and the page stares back at me.
We are not friends.
It tells me my thoughts are worthless.
Nobody wants to hear what I have to say.
That thought saps the power from my pen.
My pen becomes heavy and slow
I push through that feeling of inadequacy by
writing my thoughts down, no matter
how silly or weird.
Maybe someone else understands the
quicksand feeling of wanting to do something
but feeling that it is impossible.
I share that feeling and understand.
If I don’t move forward, I stay in the same spot.
It is like I stub my imagination on a poem.
The poem chooses me just as much as I choose it.
| feel all the bumps and cracks and see the poem for what it is.
I have to know it or I cannot write about it.
I see my reflection in it
as it relates to my life.
Once I have got to know it
I release the poem into the world by writing it down on paper
so other people see it and feel it and
This is how the ripples happen.
This is what my poetry feels for me.
I really can’t take the credit,
i am not really the one to blame
but since i started singing
i have had many poems to tame.
They come to me each one
like clouds inside my head
wafting and winding through my thoughts
i can’t really take credit,
they just come my way.
All I need is to sit and write
and press the button ‘Play’.
It could be the abundant singing.
It could be the ample supply of song
that start the words
filtering into my ear
instead of onto the page
where they belong.
i really can’t take credit.
i am not the one to blame
for the amount of poems that
come to me to tame.
They come out the end of my fingers
and stretch out on my page.
All I have to do is comb its hair
and tie its shoe.
Then it is ready for the world to view.
i really can’t take credit
Blame my muse.