Posts Tagged ‘inspiration’

What remains is what once-was, transformed
By thunder’s memory of ancient storms.
Lightninged limbs detached from trees
That fell to rot on forrest floors
Can never be restored.

New branches do push slowly through
The trunk’s gnarled bark, adorned with dew;
The feeble green afraid to glow
For fear it too will someday go
Down to the ground where it decays,
Where listless hours lament the days.

Will fragile leaves detach with wind
Along with twigs that break, then spin?
Or will they persevere and grow
Like branches that we used to know,
Ones strong enough to bear the weight
Of all that children contemplate?

Future, past, dark then, now bright
Imagination taking flight, but
Hiding now again until
All fear subsides –
I pray it will.


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Consider the year that has just been,
Reflecting on all that you’ve seen.
What have you learned from all you’ve done?
Reflect on all you have become.

The hardest lessons sometimes are
The ones that left you with a scar.
They hurt you deep and caused you pain
You know you’ll never be the same.

Reflect on all that you now know,
What you may keep or must let go.
Remember what you’ve gained and lost,
Relive the joys, lament the cost.

Those things that beat you down are past –
You’ll rise again, so strong at last.
A new year brings new wings to rise
Above the old year’s sad demise.

And as this year draws to its close
Reflect on how it’s helped you grow.
Its lessons near ripped you apart
But in the end strengthened your heart.

Though you feel lost, you’ll find your way
To navigate the brand new day
And all the brand new days to come
For life’s next stage has just begun.

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Drunk with imagination, intoxicated by inspiration, the lone Imaginist sits by the lake, waiting for a woman who will love him with all her soul forever, and for those who will be his students, eager to learn all he can impart.

Words pour out unhindered by thoughts from the core of his deepest daydreams, like innate diagonal moves across a chessboard that no opponent can match.

He needs no backstory. Plots and characters unfold themselves, without intellectual filters that others who call themselves writers depend upon.

To him, poems and tales are not the entrails of academic process that condemn words to be forever strained, contrived and caged. For the Imaginist knows at the centre of his being that words must always – always – be free to fly.

~ dedicated to My Good Friend, Langley Porter ~

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