My hands lie still by the keys

Waiting for inspiration to strike

Life has gotten humdrum

And technological

Where is my poetry?

Where is my rapture?

I do not wish to die with my song unsung.

Help me God.

Awaken the poet.

I don’t tell anyone about the thousand cuts of humiliation

Created by my own past follies and misjudgments.

The things I blurted. 

The impetuous enthusiasm 

That bursts forth unexpectedly,

Then subsides.

Unyielding to my fear that it will never return.

And then I give up, and get on with it,

“Proceeda, proceeda,”

As the Shree Lakshmi  mantra says.

I like that briskness, of “Move along, move along,”

Move along and allow. 

Don’t linger in reminiscing.

The bad parts, the good parts,

The no parts.

Even this poem is reminiscent.

An in dull gent.

The editing cannot happen until the creation is done.

Every Twitch of the Toes and Fingers 

Is a Twitch of the Mind.

And HumanKind,

Is Twitching Together at the Rate of 

25,000 People in a Room.

An Amazonian Evolution of Consciousness

Commercialized.

But I Say to You, Who Cannot Be Still.

That while God is the Switch,

It’s You Who Twitch.

And Sometimes You

Just Have to Turn it Off.

And Let Stillness Speak.