That Which Can Not Ever Be Explained

With every now we cite the faithful muse,
the one we know is never there, but
just as certainly our patroness,
our lover for all time, our aged sprite
drifting silently along the screaming front
and those of us who write,
will never let her go.

 

I'll climb the tower of my ignorance.
I'll praise the circumstance that brings me there,
to curb and rest those wild oars of the mind
however aimed out in the passion of a distant call.
I'll sing those waves of self reward,
of my impetuosity when reason plays the chorus.
There again the mind falls short; the intellect
must feast upon the small perception
of the breath alone.

We must throw up our hands. That which  saves us
is our creativity...as if it were enough. 
And this poor poet doesn't think it is.
Ironic, isn't it?  He takes some joy from that.
                   ~

Reviews

[Tom]

Yes indeed, never underestimate the power of creativity that lurks deep within our conscious and can emerge in many various forms, i.e. for the discerning writer, a elegant poem such as this !

Kudos Dean !

[Dean]

Thank you. I'm getting more reaction from this than I expected.

[Kelly Scheppers]

"That which saves us is our creativity."

There is much weight to those words, and much admiration from this mere poet to the one who wrote them!

I certainly hope you are doing well, my friend...x

[Dean]

Well indeed, and always thinking of you

[Kelly Scheppers]

I'm trying to be good...that guy in the red suit will be on the prowl soon! ; ) x

[Ken Simm.]

I enjoy the whole but that last stanza just hits full within me and all I can do is nod I hope knowingly.

[Dean]

Thank you, Ken