THE SOURCE

Every time I start to write

And the words flow loud and clear,

I wonder where they come from,

Who’s whispering in my ear?

I’m no poetic genius,

Shakespeare I am not.

Still my work is middling good,

I like to think I’ve got

A flare for rhyme and rhythm,

And a talent to amuse,

With verse on pressing matters,

Current news and views.

Is someone from the spirit world

Standing by my chair,

Prodding my prosaic mind

To compose a jaunty air?

Could this be what artists call

Their creative muse?

Or has some long dead poet

Chosen me to use?

Perhaps he’s bored in heaven,

And needs someone to type,

To put his thoughts on paper,

To express a secret gripe.

Could Keats or Yates or Byron

Have seized my modest skill,

So they can keep a hand in

The world their work did thrill?

Could Ogden Nash or Wordsworth

With me communicate?

Maybe even Milton,

Or Kipling, Frost or Blake?

Then the question rises,

Who whispered in his ear?

Who’s the One behind it all,

Who all but deaf souls hear?