It’s easy
to fall back
on old works,
no one knows
no one cares
so it’s easier
to just put them forward
undated
as if
I’d just written them.
Yes, no one knows
no one but me
and it would eat away at me
pretending like that.
So when
the tiniest bit of hope
of inspiration
the most infinitesimal jot
and tittle
of Love —
when that hit,
there I was,
pen already in hand
with a fortuitously placed notebook.
And here I write
images of a poem-a-day
dancing madly in my head,
derived from demented ballerinas
and here I sit
following the Voice of God
as it whispers in my head
in a thundering sort of way
surrendering, surrendering
I’ve found
is my highest goal.
Surrendering to my Self.
20210512.1255
