Give your right brain a free hand and all the credit
Humans are the only creatures indigenous to this planet who can in fact comprehend their circumstance: that we exist on an iota in a vast cosmos and are lavished with the gift of life. But that isn't why I included the following poem in my initial blog entry. Fact is, I awakened one morning with its first few lines noisily struggling for birth into my conscious mind. It's not a great poem, but it is a quintessential example of an empirical lesson that we all learn: poems write themselves.
Great azure whirling orb,
minutia on this cosmic mobile,
counterbalancing what across the universe?
Indigo nub in the spirogragh
of a tireless deity child,
tracing endless spirals through a freezing void.
Turquoise pebble, in the twirling slingshot
of an unhurried David,
aimed at the forehead of Orion.
Sapphire ballbearing in a stellar engine,
greased with nothingness,
zooming in a hush.
Are you so blue and life-sustaining
because you've been forgotten?