Not sure what it is, this feeling, these pictures insinuating themselves on my psyche, demanding that their stories be told.
One of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver, thinks of herself as a reporter rather than a poet. I can relate. When I try to fabricate something to write a poem about, it never works. There must be some outside influence, some inspiring factor that provides the impetus to express, imagine, emote and compose.
Sure, I organize the thoughts. But the organization is approved elsewhere.
Call it my muse, a connection with Spirit, the finger of the Almighty writing on my heart, it forces me to see, to picture, to stumble over phrases worthy to frame this feeling, this emotion, this vision.
Who- or whatever you are, thank you.