At three in the morning a poem wrote itself

Nudging me awake

I wrote in darkness

Moon not quite bright but unnecessary

Because it was automatic writing

Like the claims of those old Victorian Spiritualists

(Those whiskered men and corseted women)

Who insisted a greater power moved their pen across the paper.


I wrote endless pages of how the world and life

Should be

The pen moved in the dark


Creating words that shone

Neon? No, nuclear.


Exhausted, finally fell asleep

Woke up to see

The spiral notebook on the floor

Pen dangerously clutched in sleepy fingers

Ah, what did I write?

What did the Spirit dictate to me?

All those words scrawled across the pages


Pages and pages of indecipherability

Except for one word:



(c) 2014 ViataMaja


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