Where comes the thoughts
from the depths of my mind?
Is it even mine?
Can I claim such a thing?
All I do is listen
All I do is obey
The calling to dictate
From the pit of my stomach
From the whisper in my ear
From the insistence
Of some spirit or soul
That demands of me
Their attention just to
Write the first word or line
And the rest that follows
I poorly pen or type
As some other part of the universe
Demands of me.
How can I say
That any painting is mine?
I come out of it
Looking down at
The creation
As if seeing it for the first time
Then even years later
To wonder how such a thing
Came from me
And puzzle over how
It was done,
When I myself
Had done it.
I create a character
To play out in a
Fictional Universe,
Thinking I am
Having an original thought
A unique expression
Of a hero
To find it's
Older than time
And tapped into
Ancient cultures
And stories…
How can I claim
An original thought?
When I beat a drum
From deep in my heart,
The beats are from all time
When I pick up a tai chi sword
without thought
And move from the depths of my soul
The movements are from places
And countries from which
I have never been.
When I arrange stones
In patterns
Old healers
Recognize the patterns
And ask me
Where I learned
Them from.
No thought
No action
No creation
Is mine alone…
None but my mistakes
Are mine.
My only pride
Is in my obeyance
To the muse
To write
Or paint
Or drum.
I trust in
Listening to the deep parts
Of my soul that may be God
Or the collective unconscious
Of my beloved humanity
Speaking through me
Painting through me
Walking, talking &
Living through me…
The dead are made alive
The invisible is made visible
All the universe
Cries out to you
Through me.
Once I was arrogant enough
To claim such things as mine
Original
Unique
Alone.
I am no such thing.
I am a symphony
Played out by realms
Unseen.
I am a living tapestry
Woven by beings
And fields of light,
I am not my own,
But yours
And theirs.
For all is one
And I am also.
