Inspiration

If poetry comes not as naturally as the Leaves to a tree it had better not come at all. --- Keats


I strove to pass thoughts to pen, and please and minds and hearts of men,
But knew they wouldn't do.

My dreams the themes weren't real enough, I knew they'd call it foolish stuff,
They wanted something true .

So sitting in my wooden chair, with wrinkled brow and wearied stare,
I beheld an empty page.

And for the void within my head, I wept until my face was red
And streaked with tears of rage.

But as I stretched my stiffened back, the candles blew; the room went black,
My breast beat with surprise.

A smoky form rose in the air, with arms and legs and billowed hair,
That glared with misty eyes.

Near halfway up this smoky shape, it's jaws split wide and hung agape
To let its teeth be shown.

A noise like thunder passed its lips, and through the ash that hung it drips
Toward me these words were blown:

"Oh, dear, dear me, why do you cry?
Why do you strain,
And rack your brain?
Young poet, tell me why."

This quaking roar unnerved my thought, and 'gainst the urge to faint I fought,
Although my knees were weak.

I stood before this man of smoke, and coughing down the urge to choke,
I forced myself to speak.

" I cry because I've failed to make
A child to smile of heart to ache,
And no one seems to care to hear
My verses, yes, that's what I fear.
"I'm so afraid, great puff of mist,
Were I to die I'd not be missed.
"My works they'd cast into the flame
To burn the shame they give my name.
"And so I've worked for many days,
Tried meter, rhyme, and catchy phrase,
But nothing can my mind relate
That's great enough to halt this fate.
"Oh, pillar of dust and smoky air,
The readers of my works aren't fair.
"They thrive on truth , and hate the tale,
And here, my friend, my poems fail.
"The critics deem my works debris
For failure in reality,
Dismissing it as childish rhyme,
My manuscripts aren't worth a dime."

Cumulus arms now crossed his chest, and floating back as if to rest
He looked me in the eye.

Through softer now, still like before, his whirlwind throat poured forth a roar
Like storm clouds do no high.

"Your problems are not quite so bad,
Please dry your eyes,
And calm your sighs,
And do not look so sad.
"What you believe is what is real,
Not just what's right,
Or within sight,
And near enough so feel.
"All things within the world you see,
Plus life and death,
And thought and breath
Is all reality.
"Yet so is bubbling witch's brew
That's churned by ghouls
With magic tools
If one believes they're true .
"Write what you wish and do not fret;
Make them believe ,
And minds will heave;
They'll praise your poems yet."

"Oh no, my thoughts are savage wild!
The public wants the meek and mild.
"The standard themes of verse don't hold
The shapes my dreams take, strong and bold!"

"Good God, my child, why can't you see?
Chaotic dabs
Relieve the drabs
Of boring poetry!
"If all was law, what could we take,
But what's on earth
E'er since our birth,
And with this poems make!
"Go rake and till your fertile brain,
Your dormant seed
Is what we need
To blossom in the rain.
"For as your imaged roots take hold,
Pragmatic thought
As lichen, ought
To choke within their hold.
"And there, alone, your tree shall stand,
And how it grew
This wondrous new
Creation for the land!"

His oratory'd gained effect, and I had time now to reflect
In silent meditation

Like serum in a sick man's veins, his words had cured my psyche's pains
With burning inspiration.

Determined to make visions real, and fantasies that men could feel
I never wasted time,

But forced a smile, sincere though bland, and sitting down with pen in hand,
I wrote these lines of rhyme.