Flowing
To keep the words flowing,
I sit with my head in my hands.
I can feel the throbbing pulse
in my temples. Closing my eyes,
swirls of blue and purple light
fill the darkened screen, undulating
in a rhythmic, surging sequence.
Voiceless chatter absurdly fills
the murky void with unruly nonsense.
I shift and try to release
the tension in my neck...stretching
from side to side.
Grinding and clicking pops
seem to come from a deep chasm
within. Suddenly, I observe
a profusion of colors, hues and shapes.
A completed canvas appears boldly
in front of my astonished eyes.
I realize I am not in a realm of
conscious, poetic thought;
but must record these colorful impressions
stemming from the 'tablet of my heart'.
Lifting my head and opening my eyes
I reach for my canvas and brush.
I sit with my head in my hands.
I can feel the throbbing pulse
in my temples. Closing my eyes,
swirls of blue and purple light
fill the darkened screen, undulating
in a rhythmic, surging sequence.
Voiceless chatter absurdly fills
the murky void with unruly nonsense.
I shift and try to release
the tension in my neck...stretching
from side to side.
Grinding and clicking pops
seem to come from a deep chasm
within. Suddenly, I observe
a profusion of colors, hues and shapes.
A completed canvas appears boldly
in front of my astonished eyes.
I realize I am not in a realm of
conscious, poetic thought;
but must record these colorful impressions
stemming from the 'tablet of my heart'.
Lifting my head and opening my eyes
I reach for my canvas and brush.
Martha Meshberg
© January 2013
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