Poem By Stephen Carey
So I see I have so much time,
But I do nothing as it passes.
I call it 'sitting in the green.'
Do you see the green light?
Go... go... go...
Come on, before you're in the red-
And you sit, wasting.
Or you have time you try to use,
And nothing comes of it.
I call it 'the unwritten.'
You know you have something worthwhile,
And you try and try and try again,
But you can only stop and stare
At the empty, 'the green.'
But of a feeling at your fingertips,
Of a tickling at your tongue-
Inspiration can surprise you.
Like sunlight weaving through tree leaves
To be food for flowers on a forest floor,
It touches your mind and turns it on high.
I call it 'the imaginary pinch.'
Of coloring book pages descending
In non-geometrical rays-
Of a whistle of a whisper of a tune,
A hymn of illusory shards-
Of a memory of a memory of a memory,
Lost in a puddle of imagination-
I call it 'the best of falling days.'