where the writers are

Give your right brain a free hand and all the credit

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?

                            Dennis Shay