POEM: Inspiration

She’s a lovely but moody lady.

She doesn’t come to me when I call her,

Or when it’s a good time for me to write.

She only comes to me when she pleases.

My book depends on her, literally.

There wouldn’t be a book if it weren’t for her.

So, I learned to listen to her when she wants to speak up.

I learned to make her creating mood work for me.

I treat her with coffee and cookies when she makes an appearance.

We sit together at the table when she visits,

And we start writing.

I absorb every word she says,

And I let her lead the way.

~~~~~~~~~~

From my book of poetry Sunset in Toronto, page 122.

POEM: The Emperor's New Clothes

The emperor decides to update his wardrobe.

He hires two tailors for the job.

Apparently, they are the best tailors in the kingdom.

Everybody raves about them.

The tailors arrive at the palace.

Work starts with no delay.

But there is a catch.

Only the worthy can wear the magnificent robes created by the skillful tailors.

If you are unworthy, it will not fit.

Work in progress.

The council comes to see how it goes.

But every time a courtier checks on the tailors,

They squirm uncomfortably in the shop.

What is going on here?

Am I seeing things?

Do my eyes deceive me?

Did I get it all wrong?

Were my beliefs for nothing?

Do I doubt myself now?

Am I unworthy?

But I must not say anything out loud,

Or else, I am doomed.

I would rather live in fear and not speak up than face the naked truth.

Instead, I say,

What a marvelous creation!

And I clap along.

The parade day comes.

Everybody is joyful.

The emperor wears his new clothes, loudly and proudly.

Are you worthy or are you unworthy?

Townsfolk fidget in discomfort.

The same thought crosses everyone’s mind,

And one could see it splattered on every forehead around.

But no one dares say a single word,

For they don’t want to admit their unworthiness.

People clap half-heartedly.

What a spectacular attire!

Until the innocent child utters the truth.

The emperor is naked.

POEM: Poetry

I sit at my desk,

An open notebook in front of me.

My fingers tremble with anticipation.

The blank page stares back at me,

A canvas yearning for the brushstrokes of my words.

I close my eyes,

Seeking solace in the depths of my thoughts,

Where emotions intertwine and memories whisper.

And then, like an ethereal muse, inspiration begins to bloom.

Words dance in my mind, waiting to be brought together on the white page.

I grasp my pen,

And I let the ink flow freely,

Like a river finding its course.

Sentences form, weaving a tapestry of emotions and experiences.

Each word, carefully selected, holds the weight of my feelings, my longing, my pain.

It is in this sacred space that I find solace,

Where my heart spills onto the page and transforms into poetry.