Stories Stories

I heard on the wordy grapevine
From old mouths with lots of time
That experience mothers our inspiration:
Kisses, violence, or restless irritation.

Then why is it so
That my artist falls through
When I am in cahoots with nothing,
Not even you?

My brain hauls itself toward slumber,
Thoughts bland until – ah! Eclipsed by thunder.
One… two… three…
Something enters from outside of me:
The crystal drop of pure idea,
Elusive to the teeth of fear.

It escapes my conscious prude
Who would flag it brash, vile, or lewd.
It all slips past in this fragile hour;
I relax and let the raw seed flower.

Emily, Emily,
What do you see?

I see birds burrowing through the Earth,
Unicorns gallivanting in the white ocean;
I see cloud-stuffed skies giving birth,
And woodland imps mixing their potion.

Half way to sleep, let’s explore each absurdity,
I mean it – earnestly.
Nothing found? Nothing lost,
Just another dead door sealed off.

Is this the child of experience? I think not.
My head tries to cool but my pillow is hot!

Though they afford me no award or title,
These pockets of honest thought are vital
To expand the excavation of my mind,
Embracing both rose petal and rind.

Bypassing that commotion of feeling,
A vision peels away from the ceiling
Into my brain and out of my mouth,
Thick like the rain pouring south
Until it reaches my pen
And the madness begins all over again.