Inspiration before Expiration.

 

Inspiration Before Expiration.

©-MFB III

I take my rest and awaken
with much delight to the poetry
of the sun, and the moon,
a couplet of breathtaking beauty.
Their prismatic and soft
luminescent colors astound me.

Thus I wallow in the stink of ink,
and press tickets to enlightenment,
aboard ink-jets that carry my work worldwide,
I weld pens to my fingers that open my soul,
and grind pencils into nubs,
as a cure for my lead-aches.

I live in a studio
where I bask in palettes,
that hold pigments of
my imagination splashed
in strokes of inspiration
on thirsty canvas.

I devour poetry daily,
and digest it for readers,
in finger thick sandwiches
of paper bound.
I read these tomes
in coffeehouses and cafes,
as lattes are suckled
along with the meat of my work.

My other son, who is
the warmest spot in my life,
moves me to create a lasting legacy,
of all the magnificence our world holds,
plus words of wisdom to shed light on
the madness he will face
in his coming years.

I have never known love
without the accompaniment
of songs of tribute to
the blessing of womanhood.
There are few words to
truly pay homage to the
splendor of kisses shared,
the jig-saw joy of ten fingers joined,
and the passion of flesh becoming one.

I carry a micro-cassette
everywhere to capture
fleeting thoughts that
slip wraith-like
into the temple
of my cranium,
I worship their essence
and write prayers to them.

Flowers call me to
expound on their fragile
existence, painting vibrant verbs and bold adjectives
in tulip reds and daffodil yellows.

War wounds me to the core,
and I weep in soft blue
dirges that chronicle
all that we've lost
due to the insanity of hate.

My head is a sieve,
a sponge for the muses,
soaking up what's lyrical
in a literal pool.
It grows heavy when
I don't squeeze out
its seemingly endless bounty.

I hope to grow old
and spend my halcyon days,
in a wheelchair reflecting
on all I was granted,
A trembling gray head,

bent over scratch pads
pale skin wrought

with psoriasis,
in a race to finish
the perfect poem,
before the rhythms
of my life cease.

I am at over 4,000 poems,
and still my restless heart
pursues all of the pondering
I have left untouched.
I care little for the
fortune and fame
some acquire in their
pursuit of the word.

Just to have had the
opportunity to express,
and touch others lives
with emotions pressed,
is amply rewarding
enough for me.



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