There are no sparks of inspiration;
No celestial muse will stoke you to flame.
Instead trust your own resilient smoulder.
Brave hands cradle hot coals.

I don’t want to write for you

I don’t want to write for you.
I want to write for me. For mine.

I don’t want to lose mine. Me.
But I’m loving becoming us. Becoming we.

I don’t want you to be my muse.
Muses are fickle things. You and I endure. 

I don’t want you to be my inspiration.
Inspiration is fleeting; once caught, lost.

I don’t want to capture you in words.
You transcend my vocabulary.  My thesaurus of thought and feeling.


Backed up

“You’ve got to get a poem out,” I tell myself in bed.
“Your thoughts are stale, stagnant, and congested in your head.
Your constipated consonants are backing up your bowels.
Your deficiency in assonance: a stomach-full vowels.
Your apathetic rhetoric is sounding rather tired;
Today’s a day to hope and pray that you might be inspired.”

“You’ve got to get a poem out,” I tell myself in bed.
But I’m not sure it works like that, so let me sleep instead.



I’ve got so many ideas that it keeps me up at night
And I panic that I’m manic, and I know I’m not alright.

I’ve got a lot of feelings and I don’t know what to do.
I’m gleeful, sad, mad, fired-up– I’m radiantly blue.

I’m thinking thoughts in fragments but they’ve got nowhere to go.
I’ll write them down and hope they’re found;

Confetti in the snow.