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  • Jørn Earl Otte

"Where I Write" -- April 26, National Poetry Month



Where I Write

in Plato’s cave, casting my eyes

upon the shadows of reality, where rocks

are canvas, light the painter’s brush,

dancing swirls of endless daemons

just out of reach of my small understanding.

in the Clockhouse at Goddard,

smell of bacon, eggs, kale

sifting through the cracks in the walls,

as I find the keystone to opening

doors, not out of privilege, but through

in the belly of a whale

silently, not disturbing the match

between Geppetto and Jonah,

their chess pieces made

from the lies of their respective gods.

on the edge of my chair

in a rundown diner, sloppy French fries

growing cold on my plate, while the Prophet

James Baker Hall illuminates the heavens

with tales of the Nighttime Mind.

in Cair Paravel, on the steps

leading up to the thrones,

with my beloved lion guarding

the door, my mother laughing

at Edmund’s latest joke.

over bowls of black bean soup

steaming up my thick glasses, sharing

dirty limericks with my fellow

journalist, poet, actor, writer, singer, songwriter

friend, my infant daughter asleep on the couch.

beneath the Bodhi tree,

alongside Siddhartha, Lao Tzu, Stephen Mitchell,

all the ancestors and descendants,

sharing tea with milk and honey,

not saying a single word.

wherever pens, paper, keyboards,

muses, children, kindness, pain, grief

love, loss, death and rebirth all reside,

where kindred spirits dwell, where no one lives,

where alone and together are lovers entwined.

wherever I am

now.

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