I pick up the cool, crisp glass of extra brut cava that stands before me like a beacon of serenity at the end of the day, but before it touches my lips I am struck as if by a silent, invisible presence which seems to bystanders to take my gaze; my mind stolen by an unfathomable force. I'm in a trance as alpha waves dance inside their flesh prison; daydreaming of the world outside, and inside, other traveller's heads. My subconscious wide open to the power of suggestion; I think, for whatever floats in, will run out in a stream of love or a flood of anger...

...a pen, a pen; my thoughts for a pen! No time to sip that cava now; back in the bottle it must go until the creative juices no longer flow. I must write like I've never written before, for this sumptuous serendipitous moment will not last.

Arghhh! It has passed. But now the time for attention to detail has come; for perfecting rhyme and reason, accent and alliteration; for careful thought and sheer hard work!

Or it may come easy from fingers fumbling... google, newspapers, a dictionary or a lover; or through escapist eyes watching TV. For literary incitement, excitement is everywhere you see... hear, touch, smell or taste. I must find the time to still my mind - to listen to the wisdoms others pass down to me - to feel the emotion in each bittersweet bite of orange - to touch the quivering lily pod's burst - to smell the relief after a lover's thunderstorm - to see every word that is not spoken for each one that is. And I must find the time to live!

Sometimes I reflect it is as good to stand and stare and watch the world go by, observing another's thoughts in action, as it is to contemplate one's own life in shades of time's diffractive hue. Too true, it can make you feel blue, but it's all about the lessons it teaches you, for you can teach others too, and reach them, and even let them reach you! (But only if you want to.)

Poetry is so demanding! For words, like water, can stagnate, so I must be dynamic, flexible and open to change. Hah! Now if I could master all that (in real life too) I would be superhuman! But just striving for what we want, I have found, leads us in the right direction... and hope is the angel that guides us there.

Yet I must always be aware, for poetry can be a place of nightmares, just like the waking world, and I, as its master, must remember I have the choice to take control or let go; roll with the flow - for bitter seeds sown on barren paper will not grow, unless I let them.

And poetry can be the most beautiful scene I can paint; one of positivity and tranquillity, for there is so very much to be thankful for! Inspirations literally, liberally cast everywhere... each cloud-touched mountain top and painted ocean floor; every mother nurturing the future in her arms and each strong refugee... images so vivid they stay in our mind's eye long after our real ones have turned back to help us with the mundane tasks of every day.

Waxing lyrical can be as simple as just looking within, or expressing with an artist's vision of things.

But as for wit, satire, irony and empathy for another in situations extreme... where does all that come from? Can I explain it? No, I cannot. Do I need to?

(Some are born with it; some of us must learn!)

Have I mentioned the muse? Whether to believe is up to each of us to choose, but YES I do! It is too amazing to cast into the realm of "I don't understand it" for all too soon that can turn into "if I ignore it, it will go away."

NO!!!

But sometimes, I must learn to accept that I simply cannot find the words; this is not the time for poetry, but for patience.

At breakfast I pick up one of God's green apples and can't help but think of the temptation of Eve; yet before the flesh can touch my lips, I am struck as if by a silent, invisible presence which seems to bystanders, to take my gaze. For reality is merely one dimension of my life; but poetry is so many more...