Tag Archives: inspiration

when did home become a four-letter word (part III)

the very idea of that special
(a-ha!) “light bulb moment”
has lost much of its immediacy
in this the era of the energy-
saving globe, as with the flick
of a switch our homes are instead
idly lit by the sickly flicker of
a fluorescent glow

for sadly banished
—in the name of
forward thinking—
are those incandescent
flashes of brilliant
vision forever more
to be viewed hereafter
as the stuff of yore

the modern mindset now insists
on this cold, scientific glare
reminiscent of being strapped
to the dentist’s chair, I fear, as
opposed to the original spirit of
edison’s genius invention of
so many merry yesteryears

indeed such a luddite as I am
I would feel far more delight to
bathe in candlelight than
to spend my life illuminated
by the excitation of a host of
so-called noble gases, these
unholy ghosts we keep trapped
like fireflies in vacuum bottles

and, yes, while I know we’re told the
environment itself alone demands
we fix our wicked ways I can’t help
but feel the sting of restricted mental
freedom as to how we choose to dispel
the fast-approaching loss of light within the
benighted halls of our much-belovéd homes.

————————————————————————————–

* Please note, while not directly influenced by Don’s latest post (Light And Dark Holding Hands) on his Candid Impressions blog, I feel I must admit to a certain indebtedness within this poem to his thoughts around the subject of how we perceive light and dark in our lives. Inspiration comes in many forms, and I can’t entirely exclude the fact that I owe some credit to Don’s post, having read it prior to completing part III of my larger “when did home become a four-letter word” cycle. Either way, I would recommend all bloggers to check out Don’s site regardless, as it is always well worth a visit! 🙂

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for without her i am nothing

listening for the
intimations
of the muse
a soft, jealous
task of inquiry
after finer threads
of meaning
with which to
craft a fresh
wonder of words


Catch of the Day

When the salmon are running
Is no time for sleep
Lest their sleek, divinely
Schooled
Metallic bodies
Should slip through
Benumbed fingers
And lazy thoughts
Dreamt on barren
River banks of doubt
And petty slumbering.


The Thirsty Muse

There is no
inspiration
at the
bottom
of a
wine
bottle
to
be
had

only
the
dregs
of half
dreamt
glory

a kind
of
soft
refuge
for aged
sirens
and
long
trousered
boy
drunks.