I wonder, does it start with hoofbeats,
Or the rush of flapping wings ?
The hiss of gas ? A perfect fifth ?
Or pistons, switches, cogs and springs ?
That moment when the muse comes calling
Bringing insight in her wake –
She gifts her targets sparks and notions,
Just to see what they will make.
And some folks are raptured, and some folks are seizured,
And some folks will cherish and others will fear it –
And I can but look on and ponder their wonder
And try not to envy their genius spirit.
And if I can’t join in their synching,
Can’t speak in their tongues, or can’t waltz in their dance,
At least I can urge them to write down their thinking,
And not to leave mem’ry to chance –
So scurry and scramble to get the sprites pinned,
That jingle or joke or invention or gen –
For how many mousetraps are lost to the wind,
When somebody spoke or for the want of a pen ?
I’ve long since stopped expecting the tap,
Or the draught from angels’ wings
I’ll never be a chosen one
Who gets to feel such precious things
For I am nothing transcendental –
Too much static on the line.
I’m not complaining – so it goes,
I guess we can’t all be divine.
So I have to prod it, and I have I to wring it,
And I have to plead with my brain for a vision –
For I can but whittle upon some idea,
And patiently bring it, I hope, to fruition.
But keep chasing down on that inkling,
And tinker about in the back of the mind –
And most of all, keep turning up at the thinking –
Ah well – back to the grind.
Your whispers and trances may get your thoughts firing,
But mine just meander and dawdle and wend.
My only damn flashes are sparks in my wiring –
But maybe my work is as good in the end ?