Monday, September 19, 2011


There is a mental place I love to go,
A twilight zone where everything’s serene
Yet eerie when the spirits start to show
And suddenly my torpid brain grows keen.

I’m in my right mind there and see how wrong
The daylight way of apprehension is
That only knows by speaking, not by song,
And thinks that knowing means to pass a quiz.

It’s intuition, not the intellect
This secret garden grows in moonlit rows,
Which when the daylight comes you may inspect
And realize it’s something more than prose.

     For in this keen serenity I see
     A new dimension spelled in poetry.