What’s My Muse?

I write my seventeen’s,

unless I have no time.

Then I write long poems.

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I’m nearly seventy-five

and he wants to know why.

Why?

What would our friend Walt do?

He’d write and write and write,

and then write some more,

and they’d all be great,

and they’d all be interesting,

and we’d all read them,

and we’d all have ink envy…again.

I tell lots of stories, so

that’s no problem, and

it’s too late now to worry about

too much exposure.

I have written about going through

a windshield…twice. 

Not the same windshield, but still.

I have spoken to

the day my mother died, 

and about when I met her 

on the night I died, nine years later,

the day she sent me back from near death.

I have ruminated on the choice to

move to a foreign country, 

and then we settled inCalifornia.

When homage was the goal, 

it was sourced in that writing group

in the SoCal desert.

Ultimately, there is only one choice.

I write because I have no choice.

I write for the pure expression of life,

the joys and fears and hopes,

surely about love.

I write, inspired by the writing of others,

by the natural world in my backyard,

by the speechless days at the ocean,

by the sun and the moon,

their rising and setting,

even moved by the sounds of fire trucks afar.

As age has flattened me,

as humility has claimed me,

I now write more about Spirit,

about oneness, about transition.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

I’m simply sure I will write about it.