The windows are shut
The sweat pouring down of no beginner’s luck
It’s a writer’s chronicle
This is the place of writer’s miracles
Papers thrown on the floors
Ideas of theories in not being sure
There are times of inspiration in ready to explore
It’s jolting down a story
Continuing writing with papers full of glory
Then the famous words, “I got my story”
As the wanderer entered the room
It seemed like the warmth of heat being gloom
But looked beyond the gloom and the air seemed to spell doom
Pages became words
Chapter after chapter the dialog could be heard
Unmarked by time
It was the variation that was combined
Out of the writer’s room comes a masterpiece
This is something that inspiration has released
The writer’s room was truly in full bloom.

Life is absurd

Most of it beyond belief, and it's really just a figment
a solidified dream, one that leaves me feeling empty
because I can dream so much more, and all those dreams;
don't mean a thing, and my journey has grown tired,
and stale, and It will never shine again, because
at every turn, I'm reminded of how foolish I am.
There is no magic anymore, my worlds grown hollow
and every belief, is like a song that ends too soon.
If you take a hammer, and smash the world to pieces
it's beautiful, but as the ashes of the world settle
and solidify, you never know how your mind will end up
I like the world in ashes, thrown into the air
because that's the only place where everything is beautiful.

a warm glow shifts softly
in space & rhythm.
i pull the curtain aside & sit in the back--
a handful of seats, but only one
gets worn, the others
fool the mind into believing
imagination defies physics
to drink from the creative cauldron,
that ever-boiling vessel
churning out new
patterns & threads,
weaving fresh fibers between
spirits & minds.
the holographic hardware,
whirring too fast for ears.

our mind is the web & we spiders
spin the silk,
carefully or sloppily,
connecting the strands to catch
not flies but images,
sparks, bulbs & flashes.
often small, but once caught
emerge as a garden of gems
whose faces refract & reflect
until nearly all gems become one.

what's required is
a bright enough light
with fluid agility,
to illuminate & reflect
the whole nebula through
one, clean face--
perhaps the original gem itself;
for what would our mind be
without that raw crystal
forged in the stars?

I dream of drinking from the river
rushing its abundance of life
through soil beds rich
with unknowing purpose
to reach the sea & combine
with all rivers & make its long journey back
to the tops of mountains
feeding new life & making
the same journey
all over again.

This recycling of life
emanates & pours from every crack,
& every chirp of the cricket
brings a willful reassurance--a notching of time
in the constance of life.
I am here, we are here
& the world is waiting for us
to see its beauty within ourselves,
because I am that beauty & we are all that beauty
& everything we do paints the picture
with different colors, shapes & strokes
& an image of life on this planet
emerges from our collective brush.

The absence of Creativity is
like living underwater.
Frigid, dark water
a still-birth.

Everyday nuances are muted by
grief of the self:
Such longing!
Such responsibility!

Because you are the only
one
Who can rise up and
Breathe.

Often, the shallows are a good place to be,
Once out of there, no going back, not ever,
Once noticed, return is virtually impossible,
And all pedestals are shaky, no roots: none!

Ensure buoyancy, for one must sink or swim,
So much expected, so much demanded,
One may think shallows are unkind, a waste,
They are safe, though, friendly, pleasant,
Conducive company encouraging creation.

Once out of them, away from safe shores,
New challenges arise, new horizons, all new,
Making one desperate not to fail, not to sink,
One must swim, swim for your life; swim hard,
For it hurts to disappoint, it hurts so much.

Without the grassy bank and sandy bottom,
Creation is difficult, beware the sharks: teeth,
Scoot around the crocs, teeth snapping: biting,
Desiring your tender unsuspecting flesh!

See the glory-hogs wallowing, laughing at you,
Howling with derision; they know nothing,
Stupid hacks, every one of them, frolicking,
Performing in the deep, dark, dangerous-depths,
Unaware their blood will soon feed others,
The swirling waters running red: eventually.

Safer here with golden fish and humble toads,
Prometheus swims here as well as anywhere,
Savour the shallows, dance with creativity,
If you must leave, identity switch required,
Even then, watch sharks and crocs: teeth biting,
Often, the shallows are a good place to be.

©Paul Chafer 2014

Inventor Sam invented a life
Full of bright and sunny days
With clouds in the sky, peacefully passing on by,
And beautiful birds singing in all sorts of nice ways.

Inventor Sam, with a wave of his little right hand,
Invented mountains that reached up towards the stars
And with a wave and a flick, in an instant, quite quick,
He made rivers and valleys stretched out afar.

Inventor Sam, what a grand little man,
Invented some animals too
He called them Zebras, Giraffes, and Orangutans
Even people like me and like you

Inventor Sam then sat back to enjoy all that he made
But he noticed that something was missing
Not apples, nor reindeer, nor trees and their cool shade
Not eagles, nor bananas, nor snakes and their hissing

Inventor Sam looked closely at the animals that stuck out
Those on two legs, with little hair and one tiny snout,
They walked aimlessly around with no purpose at all
Stiff legged and hollow like fragile china dolls

Inventor Sam then sat up with a smile on his face
For he knew what would be his very last application
With a wave of both arms, and lightning for effect
He made people Inventors with their very own imagination.

-BPW  12/27/2013