We all know what it is like
to be “into something”,
or to be “into someone”…
we all know what it is like
to spend most of the hours when we are awake,
and to spend many of the hours when we are asleep,
thinking about, imagining, and wanting to return
to a place, to a time, and to a person
as soon as possible…
we all know what it is like
to be “into the idea” and “into the groove”
of something that gives us a sense of purpose,
direction, and a feeling that we are not
just going through the same process of life
as we have been through before
but we are doing what is right
and what is meaningful to us…
we all know what it is like
to be into a game that is playing out before us,
which we feel like we are in a position
to have an impact upon the outcome of,
in which the meeting of multiple parties
who have been called to engage with one another
in a contest that will determine whether
or not the road of fate has chosen them
for a reason that cannot be known
until the time is right…
we all know what is it like to be drawn into a story -
to be spellbound and speechless as we read,
or as we listen, to a tale being told to us -
that has a power to it that goes beyond
the words being used, as well as above,
and below, the world around us that we know…
we know it is like to be into a headspace
within which we find ourselves connecting
with something that resonates with us,
something that speaks to us,
something that teaches us,
something that makes sense
of what we have been thinking about and feeling
without knowing that there are always
messengers to deliver answers to us,
that change the way we look at ourselves…
we all know what it is like to be engrossed,
to be intoxicated, and to be addicted to something
that we didn’t know would become so
impactful and important to us…
we all know what it is like to feel lost,
and we all know what it is like to feel found -
which is why when we feel as if
we have become caught in stream
of energy and emotion that is not
just a result of our own thoughts and actions
but a mixture and a mindset
of something else that is different from us,
but connected to us,
we can find ourselves within something so deeply
that it is always hard to get out of it,
because of how much we are into it.
Ideas
My Poem “Train of Thought”
Waiting for an idea
is like waiting for a delivery to arrive,
but you have absolutely no clue
what you are about to receive...
waiting for an idea
is like being told that something
is about to happen,
but you aren't told
how, when, why, where, nor what...
waiting for an idea
is like waiting for a fish
to take hold of the baited-line
that you have cast out into the water...
waiting for an idea is sometimes fruitful,
but,
most of the time, waiting for an idea
is a fruitless endeavour -
because, sometimes, when ideas
feel like they are not coming to you
then you have to go wherever the ideas are:
up in the sky, under the water,
all around the world where life exists,
and where instances of wonder
happen more often than
what we are told to believe...
waiting for an idea
is like waiting for a bus
or a train to pick you up
and take you on a journey -
and sometimes you have to
accept the fact that inspiration
runs on an indefinable schedule,
and not the one you might want it to...
waiting for an idea
can be like standing on the edge
of something epic -
like the Grand Canyon -
and marvelling at what it takes
for something so breathtaking
and unique to come into being,
and then to throw a pebble below
and to not hear it fall -
that is when you can come to realise
what an idea is, and what it can take
for an idea to grow into what
it will ultimately become:
imagination, belief, trust,
and the ability to allow
your thoughts to run free
like a wild stallion,
and be ready for whatever
and wherever your train of thought
will take you.
My Poem “Open to interpretation”
When a writer writes something, that is just the beginning... after a writer shares what they have written and takes it beyond the limits of their own eyes only, that is when things truly get exciting... when a writer first gets an idea they never truly know what it will ultimately come to be... when a writer uses their gift and naturally infuses a part of themselves into whatever they have written or are writing they always leave something that they may not have planned for their readers to read. When a writer let's there words go they can have no idea by whom, when, nor where their art will be enjoyed - and there is no knowing why, nor how, their words will touch a reader and inspire their dreams as they lie asleep in bed... when a writer first puts pen to paper, or finger to key, they must resist any and every thought that might occur to them in which they might attempt to cross out, erase, or delete something of them that they felt had to be said. When a writer creates something of their own heart, mind, soul, and imagination there is always an exchange of energy that takes place that can cross time and distance instantly... even if the first intention of a writer after a while becomes like that of a whisper, the first spark of inspiration that brought an idea to life will always be there to be felt, read, heard, seen, and like the world of a dream open to interpretation.
My Poem “The Baton”
It is only natural for things to continously be passed from one person to another, from one place to another, from one time to another - because life is an endless continuum of infinite connections... thoughts, feelings, emotions, experiences, scenarios always find a way to reoccur, repeat, and be revived for another setting, for another generation - but the key part of what makes them so everlasting always remains intact... depending on how life is lived informs how echoes of the past will be interpreted by the present, as well as by the future... trends, fashions, attitudes, buried treasure, lost keepsakes have a way of returning to the surface from wherever they found themselves until the time was right for them to be found once again... people see perfection in nature... people see perfection in art... people hear perfection in the way someone laughs... people see perfection in patterns... some people see perfection in math... everybody finds something in their life that instantly takes away their fear and makes the path before them clear... like people participating in a race, or a collective journey of togetherness, everybody is constantly picking up, passing on, and reenlivening life's universal and constantly moving baton.
My Poem “A Poet and Their Muse”
It is not as easy as some people might think to imagine something from nothing as fast as it takes for someone to blink… even for those people who are skilled at improvisation, the ability to be able to come up with something on the spot is a miraculous gift of inspiration… unless you know someone or something well then it is almost impossible to create an expose about them without first spending some time with a particular person or thing and observing everything about them – from the way that they talk, to the way that they look, to the way that they listen, to the way that they move… and unless you ask questions and get answers then no one can know anyone, nor anything, nor find out how, nor why, they do what they do. How does a painter paint? How does a writer write? How does a human being or an animal live and breathe? And the answer to all those questions is the same: simply by doing so – because creativity, like most facets of instinct, is involuntary, and it is done first and foremost without any thought of personal gain. Artists create art because they must… sometimes there is more to say about something old than there is about something new… there is something more interesting about finding out how, why, when, and where something emerged into this world as a result of a specific converge and configuration of cosmic dust that had to occur. Artists can describe an idea, a thought, a piece of art that they have originated – but, in all honesty, no artist could ever accurately tell you where, when, why, nor how they are able to do all that they do, because the sharing of inspiration from the source to the artist is a language that is only known by a poet and their muse.
My Poem “Rabbit Holes”
I think everybody can attest
to the experience of
once in a while watching something,
reading something, hearing something,
and then finding themselves
inextricably falling head first
down a “rabbit hole” of interest
and intrigue in regard
to something in particular –
a subject, a song, an artist,
a film, a TV show, an idea
that slowly captures your imagination
and compels you to dive deeper
below the surface and discover
what lies beneath what something
appears to be, and find the structure
that binds everything together
to make something everything that is:
experiences, words of wisdom,
influences, impressions, interpretations,
vital pieces of the creator
that will forever remain infused
into what coalesces into
making a piece of art.
The internet is a place
full of “rabbit holes” –
one moment you can be watching
an interview with somebody
whom you want to know more about,
and the next you can be
automatically recommended
to watch another video
involving someone or something
with a unique and vital insight
into a subject matter that has
a close association to the video
that you original sought out –
and it is the ever present
links that are there to be found
that make the internet the warren
of tunnels for acquiring
and dispensing knowledge,
insight, entertainment, and connection
that makes it a wonder of the modern world.
“Rabbit holes” leading to new,
wonderful, fascinating, and vastly
different worlds, of course,
is a metaphorical allusion
to the rabbit hole that Alice,
in Lewis Carroll’s “Alice in Wonderland”,
deliberately climbs into –
which of course was in fact
an unsuspecting entrance to
the magical world of “Wonderland”,
while following “The White Rabbit” –
has been the inspiration for many
fantastic tales in every form –
from literature to cinema;
and every day everybody carries with them
at all times portals that enable
anybody with access to the World Wide Web
of content that is the Internet
the ability to find themselves
drawn down metaphorical “Rabbit hole”
after “Rabbit hole” that while using
to expand their knowledge
and their horizons they are
all unknowingly also contributing
into the creation of what the wonderland
of the future will look like.
My Poem “Superpower”
The life of an artist
is not always easy…
the inspiration imbibed
by an artist is the combination
of a marathon of many steps
of a long journey…
an artist sometimes has to walk
a line between darkness and light…
relationships, experiences, loss,
the stories of other people
are a vital contributing factor
in how an artist will grow
and what an artist will choose to create…
the art of an artist is
a subjective perspective of life
that is neither wrong nor right.
The explosive power of an artist’s muse
is unparalleled and indescribable,
and when fully harnessed
the inspiration felt by an artist
can feel as amazing and invigorating
and as dangerous as holding
a stick of dynamite…
art is an obsession and it can be
as addictive as a drug,
and as intoxicating as love.
Love inspires art,
and art inspires love…
art can be seen below,
as well as above…
in my opinion, artists
are like superheroes
and the gift to be able
to make art is a miracle…
art can save people,
and artists who make art that matters
have a responsibility to instill
into their creations ideas
that will help other people dream
and achieve things in their life
that will flower and continue
to reinvigorate the gift
that is their inner light
and their ultimate source of power.
My Poem “The Idea Hunter”
No one knows where ideas come from
nor where ideas will lead…
no one knows what an idea will do
nor what it will be until it is free…
no one knows who will be
the originator of an idea –
however, once an idea becomes something
that can verbalized, physical and “real”,
then an idea has a tendency to spread
like wild fire until it is captured
and it morphs into a form
that can be easily described.
No one knows how an idea
will change the world…
no one knows how an idea
will change a person…
no one knows how ideas take on a life
of their own the way that they do,
but when they do run away with themselves
ideas can sometimes have the gift
of finding a way to scale over walls,
to penetrate through solid stone,
to lift people into the stratosphere,
to free people of their fears,
to colour a person’s dreams
with all the hues of the rainbow.
For as long as I have been alive –
especially since I have been
expressing myself through poetry –
I have been venturing to places,
I have been meeting people,
I have been climbing high,
I have been digging deep,
I have been an imbiber of life,
in awe of the universe of wonder
in which I am a constant idea hunter.
My Poem “Up With The Crows”
I’ve always been an early riser…
I’ve always awoken before
the sun has risen above the horizon…
I’ve always bee someone lucky enough
to have been given the gift of being
able to hear and to be able to listen
to the beautiful symphony
and the majestic choir of the dawn chorus
sung by all manner of birds.
I’ve always been a poet who has looked,
listened, and took in the spirit
and the essence that greets me
every morning when I open up
all of my senses to all the wonders
and all the magic that I have felt –
all the inspiration that has been
conjured within my mind
that have been converted into perfect words.
Some mornings I wake up
and I am instantly and automatically
ready for the day ahead of me,
and then there are those mornings
when it takes me a minute or two
to find my bearings
and get my priorities straight…
some mornings I feel like
I am ahead of the game,
and some mornings I feel like
my brain is running late.
Every morning is definitely
a different morning than the one
that came before and it will definitely
be different from the one that will follow;
however, I am just like everybody else
and I too have my own version
of a morning routine that I believe
stands me in good stead
and starts my day off on the right foot –
and I like to think that every morning
I am prepared to zig and to zag
and to adapt to every thing that the world
is just waiting to throw my way.
Some mornings, my thoughts, my feelings,
my blood, runs fast –
and some mornings, like a car
stuck in a traffic-jam,
the highway of my consciousness runs slow;
however, I can honestly report
that there hasn’t been many mornings
during my life, even as child,
when I have not woken up
with a brand new idea in my mind
that I want to caw about
and at the same time as the crows.
Mark The Poet 