As poets, we silently scream within the poems that we write, the fervent words permanently soaking into the universe
The universe absorbing the reality of their meaning, even if we ourselves may not fully understand yet
In every piece of art, the inner soul is revealing a part of itself
Big or small, it is there, making its presence known
I find this to be very beautiful

Why so many people imitate
the same popular things
that people did
and the one reason
I only get that they want to become
as popular as them,
and here I am writing
that they don't know,
or vice versa.

Is that called creativity?

Listening to Leopold’s symphony
for two minutes,
I was bored.
My mind wondered.
I recalled the dramatic first chords
of Wolfgang’s symphony 41
how it awakened me
how I was hooked by his energy and zest.

Even though Leopold taught his son,
the fame of the impulsive and creative Amadeus spread
as he wrote and played
and captured the attention of the world.

I wonder what poor Leopold thought of his own work
in contrast to his prolific son
a son who seemingly created great music
from nothing
who freed himself from tired conventions.

A creator makes something from nothing
and I wonder if being lost in nothingness
as we poets sometimes are,
if letting go of the familiar
makes it easier to create.

Chaotic winds
whir and wail all day
skewing clocks and towers
ponderous footsteps
of pumpkin
tainted night
twisted space
scattered light falls
like blades of rain
between the evergreen
a mutual transmission of
unusual potential horror happening
whirl of emptiness
a dead river
bone-eating road
murky sound shimmers
gradually from the strings of mirage
spatial queries galore
skeletal fingers pressing on pain and sores
chaotic winds herald
a slightly terrifying
muddied scene
contorted space
meager light pierces the dark
galloping horse flows into sight
dreams begin
festival and fantasy merge
clamor of dust disappears
silence after the explosion
a sole survivor
quiet gladiator
battle garb cloaked in endless skies
regalia of stars
tamed shadowy beasts of forest
strong sounds of symbols
breaths sink into deep sea
below the bed at midnight hide
a starry dream
swimming fish
drifting silence
translates wandering wraiths
into undecipherable scripts
on stones of grave.

How many poems have I writ?
And how easy has the process been?
To think and to conjure from my brain
Unto the printed page,

Ideas and concepts flowing
in a seamless joyous
Tide of vocabulary and
Profusion

Until a while ago.
When everything.
Just.
Stopped.

So what is it?
What is this ******* thing
That circumvents my joy
And my creativity?

Where is it skulking?
Coward! Come forth,
Be fought!
But it would not

Did not
And I did not write,
My pen was silent
But not my creativity,

Until I met some strangers
Who became immediate
Fast friends and true,
I opened up

And ideas flew,
Turns out
The block was that no one actually
Asked me to write,
No one and especially not me!

Well these new friends did,
And the blockage,
In that instant,
Died
And went

And so this verse,
Poor though it be,
And first in quite a while,
Has indeed

Snuck out

Under

The wire

The darkness of the night,
Silent and elusive for a while,
Returns to me
Like a long lost friend
As my creative juices
Start to flow once again.