Waiting for Inspiration.

Waking on the wrong side of the mirror, lost
for words,
whole paragraphs dropping from my bedside
                                                         note pads
like dead flies,
their wings deceitfully swaddled by the spider
in a cocoon of lies;
I wave my pen at the fading stars
and wait for inspiration to float down,
a smoke stunned moth descending from the light,
a mosquito drilling deep inside my ear.

Perhaps tonight a new poem will come to life,
transferred on silent wings out of the dark
into my dog tired mind.
A message from the right side of the mirror
that I must transcribe quickly on my pad
before the words take flight out of my head.

Suddenly the mirror cracks and I fall through
a jagged chasm into the Ikea world
that I customarily inhabit.
"Oh well, another weird distorted dream",
I mutter to myself as I lie flat
watching the morning sunlight pink the ceiling.

I notice high up in a dusty corner
a Daddy Longlegs tip toeing upside down
ill at ease, toward her destination
in some small crack or fissure out of sight.
Perhaps last night that insect crossed my bed,
stepped lightly on my eyelids while I slept,
not waking me, but tap tapping through my brain
messages from a place I do not know.

I struggle cursing out of bed.
Pick up my mug of water, take a gulp,
then notice scattered on the bedroom floor
rough notes for this poem.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 12th. - 14th. 2017.
Our dreams and waking world interact more closely than we think.