They say anything can inspire poetry.
So I tried to get inspired.
I looked for meaning in psychedelic art
that made my eyes and thoughts sting.
Strained to find the melody in a sound
that my ears insisted was a noisy screech.
I examined the world through the eyes of an alien,
to end up wondering about the politics in his.
I tried this, and that and the other.
Even tried to compose in the shower.
But inspiration and poetry both eluded me.
Then, as I sat dejected and glum,
finding symbolism in the setting sun,
my baby asked me if I knew
what a human eyeball smells like.
And whether Oreos could grow on trees.
When I had finished laughing
– and having my eyes throughly sniffed –
I didn’t mind so much that psychedelia couldn’t inspire me.
It will take some work to achieve derangement,
to step out of the box and look in.
Until then, maybe I’ll find inspiration
in a child’s unfiltered curiosity.
As they say, anything can inspire poetry.