My courtship with Creativity
Has unfurled with a million dates,
And making love in numerous places.
The cushy chair at the coffee shop,
Train rides to the town less than three hours away,
Rainy nights by the fire,
The mile high club,
A lunch hour quickie in the car
Or rolling on top, still sleepy eyed
To start the day of with a bang.
We’ve done it pretty much on every surface in my house.
Cleared everything from the table
So as not to leave any stains.
Lamps are knocked over,
Pictures fall off the wall as we hammer it out.
When all is said and done,
Everything else is in complete disarray.
The rose bush in the backyard
would blush if she opened her petals to speak
To the beauty and beast she’s watched through the window.
Creativity is a sexual adventure.
And like sex,
If it’s going to come out of fantasy land
And into form,
It needs space and time.
Love it or hate it,
It chose you
To express on its behalf.
I’m humbled every time I think
I can keep the rumble under raps.
I’ve been scorched a few times
sitting in judgement,
chasing curiosity too long,
Or attempting to amass the courage
To release a cougar
That first offered it’s suggestion
With a perfectly innocent “Meow.”
Creativity is primal.
An energy so powerful
That held captive becomes a hazard.
It will leak, spew, explode,
or burn you at the stake
of your own backbone.
It has no remorse if you bite the dust,
It will create again with your ashes.
You are not in control.
Case in point, I felt the fire
And sat my ass down
— I’m learning to surrender and serve.
This is not what I thought it was going to be.
And that’s most of the fun.
Assuming the position
And allowing unbridled forces
to take the reigns
so you become the animal.
photo: Clip from “Fog Closing In”