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Creativity lies dead in the absence of Motivation,
in a dark crypt with the lid screwed way down tight.
Originality - in bed with Incantation,
is mumbo-jumbo without the boon of Inspiration
to make our words paint clever portraits without reservation,
as we scratch our asses or our heads all through the night.
Yes, the search for jolt or jab oft’ continues through the night,
questing for some Lourdes’ miracle of Motivation.
If discovered, we will pounce without a single reservation
and if our endeavors prove fruitless, our jaws are rendered tight.
There’s no predicting when will come sweet Inspiration –
Alas, she is not summoned simply by clandestine incantation.
Oh, were it true that all required is just some magic incantation,
as we stir our poet’s bubbling brew in our cerebral lair so late at night,
trying to voodoo our capricious mind towards the source of Inspiration.
But it would seem too, there is no spell or formula for catching Motivation
and the more slippery she’s rendered as we strive to squeeze her tight;
nor can we anticipate her presence by making special reservations.
We’re deluded once we think we’ve found “the” recipe - there’s no preservation
possible, since the love potion spoils irregardless of cogitation or incantations,
after that first pot is prepared and we’ve gorged ourselves in gluttony, our ego tightly
bursting at the seams. Incessantly we must reiterate our nightly
explorations searching ad infinitum, ad nauseum for that fickle Motivation -
and the shape changer, rearranger, ever the confusing stranger – Inspiration.
Writer’s darling (such a hussy) as she flits sans hesitation from lap to lap sweet Inspiration,
ever hinting of her pleasures tempting all in her abandon no reservations
in behavior as she whispers of menage a trois’ with her sister Motivation.
Their love litany, with breathy, giggled, flirty incantations,
frustratingly, embarrassingly continues deep into the futile night,
while we recognize they’ll lock those thighs and their treasure trove up tight.
We’ve no recourse but pursue these girls even though our creative restraints tighten
the more we struggle against them to attain proximity to sensual Inspiration.
Head down, slicker lashed as in a gale, seeking words to cage like netting Nightin
-gales born on the tempests’ blasts - caution thrown to those winds with no reservations
about the consequences, lips muttering ferverish incantations,
we also boldly go where all poets have gone before – lusting after Motivation.
These two comely sisters we desire - Motivation for her spark - Inspiration for her fire,
refuse to let us hold them tightly although we worship, woo them nightly -
sacrificing scant respect, no reservations how we’ll beseech them with our hollow incantations.
Copyright 2001
Lyle R. Berry
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