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Poem: ‘Tis Inspiration
Sit I a poet mind spinning like a top listlessly waiting to be jarred,
Tick-tock the clock laughs saying ‘tis be lost or loss not my problem,
I sigh . . . fingers still, no click or clack of keys, radio spews those blues,
Coffee cup now empty stuck to my chair feet antsy hearing a different tune.
Through the window high above brilliance is a star twinkling casting its net,
I wish I may, I wish I might settle this mess of mixed thoughts giving pause,
Asking, “How do I share mystical and magical is not of poet ‘tis inspiration”,
Heard outside night’s hushed silence are raindrops sharing rhythm’s hidden tune.
Alas, muse whispers, top moves aside, fingers begin to dance, click and clack,
A nod of head paper fills with symbols to be read seems there is more . . . words,
Thoughts laced are novel, yet uncertainty story’s plot unless between lines read,
‘Tis prose not written, perhaps expose explains, ‘tis hope of imagination with feelings.
Inspiration leads dance, mystical and magical a message deciphered perhaps not,
Memory beckons solving poem’s riddle once again muse whispers " ‘tis inspiration",
Once upon a time long, long ago sat a hobbit, quill held in hand parchment nearby,
Saying softly, “Sit I a poet mind swirling winds waiting to be stilled ‘tis inspiration.”
© 2017 Tim Mitchell