The inspiration for the poem below came from 'The Magic of Bell Isles' which has so much to offer anyone who writes. The nine years old Finnegan O'Neil asks crusty old author Monty Wildhorn where stories come from? The answer was long and I'm not going into that but the idea of when words come hit me yesterday. I wasn't thinking specifically of poetry but words for my stories as well.
When do the words come?
They come as I fall asleep
and again in the still of the night
as slumber approaches from deep
or recedes as on occasion it might.
As the moon driven tide laps shores
round the world’s watery margins.
They come at the behest of the view
or the sound of a trumpet calling
as the notes have the power to renew
each one a clarion summoning.
At every wave of the baton the conductor
directs them to every corner of my mind.
They come when strange speakers deliver
but not in the original sequence
in torrents or singly they quiver
the creative sail billowing in deference.
Every line and sentence heard
may only produce one needed word.
They come to me as a crowd
jostling noisily for room
creating mystery, love and umbrella proud
under which readers’ minds may bloom.
Is there hope that those who read
will derive pleasure’s seed?
© David L Atkinson August 2014