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”


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