Where does the real inspiration come from?,

the real poetry, the real painting, the words that sing,

and hop off of our fingers,

and paint the feelings, in brilliant hues, threads that flash in

blue and red?

Where Does Inspiration Come From?,

from the longings for love, the heartache and pain,

of loss, and disappointment, from

the awakening of the  soul, the stirring of the spirit,

the reaching out to the stars and sun and moon,

hand outstretched, pleading…

Where does inspiration live?

In the listening mind,

In the voice that says, “Wow!”,

in the soul that comes to life, in the overpowering joy,

even splendor,

that every being knows, when we open our eyes, that our dance

is over in a flash, that we have only a few magic moments,

there no time to sit down and wait for the next dance,

and we rush out onto the floor, to stomp our feet, twirl our skirts,

kiss life right on the lips, in the moist dark when we make love,

dare it to kiss us back

When is inspiration here, nibbling on our ear, seeding our dreams,

luring us away from the raging waters of the world?

You there, sweet thing, listen to me, listen to me now.

Inspiration is here,

when the heart is saying, shouting, screaming to the skies,

“I am alive. I am so damn alive.”