Scratching Verse

In the day
I tried to engineer a poem,
a calculated construction
that would move
with geometric certainty;
but at three am
I find myself
alone
writing,
seeking an island
where there is no beaten path.
I drift, without anchor or rudder,
falling into an hypnotic reverie
where time is no longer rational.
I relive the glorious splendor of morning
when the priceless sun rose naked in azure skies,
long before the idea of the coming Flood
washed away heroic visions of Achilles
and compelled me
to collect picture postcards of the Golden Calf;
a time when play was play without any rules,
a rain puddle an ocean alive with possibilities,
a broken stick a sword that could defeat evil armies;
an awakening where emotion and perception reigned
while logic and principle were seedlings struggling
in a thriving garden of innocence.
I dream, and as the poet becomes what he paints,
regaining the mystic power of transformation,
I observe fresh words flowing out
in primitive handwriting I do not recognize.
I greet the magic dragon, roaring with raucous delight
as he leaves his cave by the Arctic sea
where green nights and glittering ice
illuminate phosphorescent reflections
of queens and zebras dancing in the snow at twilight
celebrating the rebirth of beauty and imagination.