The time spread out the eternal
moments,
as the night embraced
intimate secrets within darkness,

As the moist dispersed,
the sweet scent of euphoric
wavelets, dessicated air
pierced the soul with
glad tidings of the Dawn

Eyes caught the glimpse
of the first rays, and it's
time to drown within
the fatigued brainwaves.

Only few daring souls
are willing to be submerged
in deep sea of unconscious,

Conscious within the Silence,
communed to the Divine.

The Muse hidden in depths of
one's realm, the true gem, raw
and unpolished.

The gaze turned inwards,
ignites the Fire within the
vessel,

When the self assuaged
by the deep voice of the Genius,
it expands to embrace
the all-pervading
Reality !

Inspiration is a fickle wind
that can drift by like a hurricane
or sink down into a lowly cavern,
never to be seen again.

She is the aquifer beneath our feet-
Or a warm wave crashing on to
a moonlit beach.

It doesn't matter what you go through,
Her name will always stay the same.
A thunder strike at midnight
will keep you writing till noon
if your mind stays open to the waters
of her cascading monsoon.

Tonight
winds are small
still there is a chill
the warmth of poetry
for me it's always been
here
it's great to be able
to write some tidy
things down
like butterflies in springtime
as always enthusiasm
can set poetry alight
brighter and brighter
tonight
i indulge in warm writing
i take the initiative
to be with poetry.

"WOOLGATHERER."

I think I was grinding some thought, ah, what was it about. ? Well anyway, what else should a sage visionary besides how to make possibility of all impossible cases. Making peace and building humanity. It was my only goal to make the world a better place for you and I and every breathing thangs, that walked the earth's surface. Dreamers don't sleep. Sleepers never dreamed. Achievers lived dream. Life's but happening dream. Life is live. woolgather. Wake don't sleep !
#C9_fm

I tend to follow the key notion of something that balances on a single harmless 'tightrope.' Something that can't look down (even in the slightest of quick 'desirable' glimpses). Because if you do...then you will pay the price of simply having then seen something that has yet to make proper sense. This idea, hints at a single notion...that had yet to fully introduce itself to the main issue at hand...that starts with one thing and one single thing, only... You become entirely something that you’re not, when and only when...you have seen what that single notion truly speaks about. And what the very idea truly speaks of (once you know this...), you can then fully begin to not feel scared anymore. Because being scared when up high on a single piece of material (that definitely, regardless of what it looks, or seems like, fully resembles without a doubt… A harmless…tightrope.) Now, you all the sudden start randomly walking forward on that seemingly harmless tightrope, and suddenly as by no far-stretch of the imagination to handle, properly, and appropriately), you start immediately using your incredible creativity to simply imagine the straightest line, imaginable. All so that very creativity could then of course help you align a single (properly hopeful) imaginary linear line (for your own line of sight to slow down your own pace of everything in your entire self). Slow down concentration (to help you see more visuals and the insights that piece together faster, where you'd find the pattern a lot quicker, then before). Even going as far as to simply (also) slow-down your own focus (where that will fully determine the very readiness in itself, you reacted upon), just so you could then better prepare yourself accordingly (ahead of time). While now VASTLY concentrating on not single-handedly falling for your dear life! Then you have yet to properly read between the lines. If you succeed in doing that very thing... You will see (not just why 'I write'...) But how you succeed in finding the missing key (inside your very self), that actually makes you witness the very dynamic meaning simply as too... ‘Why Do You Write?’”

I had my happy coloured marbles,
All in a drawstring bag
I even had my wits about me
When they all said I was mad

I've since lost my marbles,
My wit's been licked it seems
I'm still searching for them
While you analyze my dreams

Now they call me mellow yellow
Since that slick spark has dimmed
No longer a manic madman
Calmed by my tonic and gin

Why does there always seem to be
An exchange, creativity for conformity
A need for insanity to be confined to brevity
And quickly quelled by righteous authority?

A poem once came to me.
I was pouring water
On my infant’s fragile head.
I didn’t want to lose count
So, I let it slide, down and down
And it lay there, on the ground
Quite dead.

A poem once winked at me
Skulking beyond the shadowy shrubs
Where my child walks before being fed.
But because he must return, and
Not miss his customary turn-
I turned it into a lullaby
And wheeled it home to bed.