CONCEPTION OF WORDS

The music of art fills my mind.. soothing.. spaces...in..places so many kinds ,fresh eyed my perspectives,now true I step up close..undo the zip and enter the mood drip by drip.. into my unconscious mind.. so random.the spontaneity. as her gaze disappears into the haze and I wonder did Seurat.. miss the point but not so his 'then' becomes my 'now'

What intimacy is its cause,perhaps an immaculate conception of words; too swift to comprehend,see or recognise.The moment is there and then is not.Gone with the wind the seed of idea remains, to germinate and gestate,fanned by a mental fragrance of elation.Slowly self-transcending a word into a phrase, a sentence to a strophe;a rhyme rides a waterfall of cadence, into a chasm of verse. Terse or long, the sonnet becomes a little song, struggles to arrive.Thrust forth upon my page;a bastard-born of pain, ancestry unknown,no more to roam

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