Author of my Poem
The author of my poem lives deep in my soul
whose secret plan is to be in control.
He summons me when he’s good and ready;
whether I am asleep or on my feet and steady.
He is all what I learned lying still and dormant,
long forgotten but yet still alive and vibrant;
always running through my dreams at night
while appearing before me in plain sight.
He lives in his cave, far from where I stay;
a million miles or only a stone’s throw away.
He comes to me from my deep meditations
or riding upon the crest of the music vibrations.
Sometimes the baton of the maestro goads him along
as he comes to me with a most invigorating song.
Sometimes he puts me into the teeth of the winds
and I ride along its spine and outstretched limbs.
His vibrations echo through me and reach my fingers
and move them with gusto and by all what lingers,
and the poem takes shape in a graceful manner
all from the mind of a most authoritative planner
who chose me to run through and write his poem,
me, a curious nomad wandering away from home,
in search of words that come to rattle my spine
with gusto and grace and power and rhyme.
“Thanks be to thee, the author of my poem,
who chose me to write it and call it my own”
