It used to be a maelstrom

A sorcery of complexity,

Weaving the disparate strands…

Into a tapestry of wonders…

Multi-media before multi-media

Was even a thing.


I’d be acting, then sculpting…

Then painting and writing…

Making music and all without guile.

I had no control, the neurons fired,

And I plucked wantonly,

Atoms from a solar system of thoughts.

The Rush was intense,

But never controlled…

A Mickey Mouse kind of existence!



my creative juices are a trickle…

Like following a trail of stones in the forest,

Ariadne’s shimmering thread through the labyrinth,

Yet still, I find the trail a torture…

With unknown outcomes.

Would that I had an owl to sit

At the forks in the forest…

And show me the way,

The stream is now but a brook…

And the ocean seems a long way off.





    1. ok thanks, I’ve added to the end of the blog. Listened to a radio programme about Fantasia the other day, it was said the Stravinsky hated the Disney interpretation of The Rites Of spring


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