The Creator

by Daniel DeRosa

In the beginning there is paper and it is blank

I say:  Let there be words

And they are poetic

I say: Let there be conceptual interpretation

And it is deep

I say: Let there be lines that defy convention and need reinvention of written language

        to accommodate my view

And the lines are good.

I send seven plagues of knowledge to etch the page

With metaphor and simile of me

I write life into lines during creation

I steal rib from myself and sharpen the end to write

Monsters, madmen, magicians and mighty young Joes of thoughts

To break their chains and run into the street

I write dreams to be devoured like desire filled with wishes for flavor

I write cups of dirt that turn to gold in the hold of ideas

I downpour precipitation pattern on pages predicated on reaching into imagination

I draw respect with words

I herd pieces of chaos into the dot over my eyes that I use to look into my own fears

My pen sets bushes on fire

I throw stone tablets of my commandments at the page

1) Thou words shalt be true to my feelings as I write,

Dealing words like poker cards in poem form

Three-of-a-kind beats a pair,

But a full house of metaphor over rhyming lines loses

To four-of-a-kind

When heart and mind and lines combine

True to me and what you see on my page

2) Add thoughts to world-view to share mind inside with occasional rhyme

Because lyrical language isn’t confined by rhyming handcuff couplets

And poetry can be simple and complex like the concept of

Tomorrow being the yesterday of a day you and I have not even dreamed about yet.

3) Find the inspiration in everyday life,

Seek the lyric in the ticking of a clock,

Record the accidental impromptu alliteration of people

Unaware they are writing poems on the inside of your mind

Steal from the giants that have walked this path before you

But make certain when doing so to disguise their work in yours

So that namedropping doesn’t seem like a Xerox copy of a

Non-poet’s work

Go forth and prosper in thoust writing

I will write maps in nouns and verbs

I will write traps for Jub-Jub birds

To find the proper antecedent for a bandersnatch in flight

I go out at night to hunt the dreaded snipe,

Just to tell the story of the greatest love ever known

I write things down for the sake of writing

I will choke the sound of car horns from the throat of the color vermilion

Find the right divisor to prove the square root of purple to be

As far as you can see through the future to the back of yesterday.

Then,

When the page is full,

And no more imagery can find life in lines

No more people screaming in the language of clouds

No more lessons to teach through

Manual interface with wood pulp glued together in sheet shape neatness,

Then,

I will rest.

Just long enough to find the inspiration to do it again.