Inside This World

Where chaos and order intersect, sparks may collide;
thunder and lightning and rain  
or a heavy wind
to ruffle up rivers, shake buildings,
break trees in pieces.

Or you hear a voice without purpose.
You sit up and listen.
Call it thinking, call it streaming, call it God:
it has your attention.

                        * * *

You achieve a poem or perhaps the beginning of a poem.
The process itself is chaotic
but arrives at form.

And all that you do is listen to a silence speaking
in words  
giving rise to vision.

Displays of image float by
to collect, to be tried, or thrown out,
henceforth, forgotten.

You become engaged in creation, join in, take part
in that miraculous world,
so lose control.  

                        * * *

It's as if you sing,  
but it isn't you that is singing: it is creation.

Sometimes the singing is raucous, sometimes subdued,
not always the pleasantest sound.

Or the song is sad and wistful,   
a song of loss; 
or erupts like a mountain in anger.

All you know is the singing is true. 
It’s the song you trust.