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Tuesday, February 1, 2011


Where does inspiration come from? How are we able to link what we see, our experiences, and what we touch, and turn it into paintings or poetry or song or dance? I, as a writer, have disciplined myself to step aside and allow the muse to flow through me. I believe we are each a work in progress and should practice living presently, and with that, try to pick pieces of life out of each day, whether positive or negative, and turn those experiences into something that creates meaning to all our lives. I challenge you to find inspiration in your day and create meaning from it. I am the POET. May the muse be with you. P.S. I took the picture below when I was in Paris at an American book store, I thought the irony in it.

Painter, Poet, and Priest

In difficulty, my vigilance helps maintain my strength,
I sit in the second seat next to the water fountain,
a fluorescent prayer candle helps illuminate my sanity.
Gates of seats, mine is also next to the magazine rack,
I face the front of the reception desk; I watch patients
being greeted by an elderly woman. Please take a seat.

Under construction, the hospital is, a painter
wearing white Sherman-William pants, covers
black marks left from gurneys and carts and
rubber tires of wheel chairs with white paint.
I sit, as my mother is being prepped, and on his way
to another place, the painter stops at my row of seats.
He casually asks if I am deep in thought and if I am okay.
“I am passing time,” I say. He understands. Life is long.

It is the look on my face? Is it the waiting room?
Is it the white paint I need to cover the dark worry?
Is it a life time of visits for the grace of my parents?
A priest comes along, white collar, concerned compassion.
“You are in deep thought. Are you okay?” I really start to
wonder; I look down and check to see if my white shirt
is unbuttoned. Can they see into my broken heart?

I shift in my seat and think about a drink--
not from the water fountain, and answer,
“It is a short procedure.”
“Is it serious?”
“It’s not death.”
“I understand.”
Does the priest see the cloak of loss on my face?
Does he think I should let God whiten my way?
Maybe the painter and the priest are special today
because all I want to do is poetically capture their peace.

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