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Poems about Creativity: conducted


In the clouds of consciousness

brews a bolt,

readying to be hurled down

from the white and gray and deep, old blue

We can’t know the higher mind

of the temper-mental titan

poised at the mysterious thunder-forge,

deciding to deign

the delirious deliverance of an idea

in that frictious fraction of a moment

before striking us with ionized inspiration

Then the collision of furies hot and cold

as the icy hammer of clarity falls hard

on the fever-dream anvil,

singing silent smoke skyward,

and a spark stream tumbling down

at the speed of impulse,

descending with invisible speed

Though we can’t yet see,

we feel respiration taken,

breath from bone and thump from heart

to fuel the perspiration spike,

now gathered in electric fervor

among our fine hairs and pores

Then there’s the hearsay

of the triumphant and terrible blast

roaring echoes of aha! and eureka!

across the gorges and furrows

of the word-wound mind

At last the wooden poles and encased wires

Of hands seize and grasp

for our own smithing instrument

to complete the circuit,

and as pen hits parchment

paintbrush hits pallette

printed finger hits string or keystroke synapse

transformers burst forth

It’s only then,

on this journey of return

back into and around

the crackling mountain-mass

of a cultured, concretized crucible

that we begin to perceive, sky-blinded,

the molten river that sweeps us up

in its sizzling neural current,

the lingering light-shadow of lightning

throbbing our vision with black and blue

And now we return again

to this pregnant pulse

before the vast preponderance

of that wild, cascading tempest

we call creation,

to this ethereal time before time

when the unspeakable is coursing

from heaven on high

to tip of the tongue

It has already

brought down the plasma gavel

of its verdict – we are

charged, conscripted,

conducted into the channel,

shock-bound conduits

of the storm-shrouded artful force



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