Ideas drift by in the ether, shining brightly displaying their wares
for all on this plane to see, waiting for someone to notice who cares
enough to cradle an ember close, give it form upon the page
once inked it sparks, ignited by chance, to inspire a whole new age

Some ideas wait for aeons, without capturing hearts or minds
Biding their time patiently, for the receivers who see their kind
Then all at once and without warning, a slew of embers will explode in a burst 
Driving a torrent of change so timely, that it almost looks rehearsed

It is long known the forces of creation, work in mysterious ways
we can question the source of their provenance, or find joy in the warmth of their blaze
greet their words with hearts wide open, and an acceptance we can always be wrong
submit our souls to the hum of peace and love, that is the Universe’s only song

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‘Creativity comes from the spiritual realm, the collective consciousness. And the mind is in a different realm than the molecules of the brain. The brain is a receiver, not a source.’

Candace Pert

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I still get a feeling of great surprise every time I finish a poem, like I’m not quite sure how it appeared on the page, but there it is, proclaiming its existence with no plausible deniability. It’s a great feeling, I hope it never goes away.

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