When I am lost for words and can’t find that wondering minstrel named Muse, I grab an ink pen and head for a certain little French Caf. I soon find myself amongst mosaic toped tables with pastries to rival an impressionists painting. Each breath I take is filled with the song of conversations. As the sun raises its sleepy head over the avenue it illuminates the gaily painted fronts of the shops lining the cobblestones. As I feed the sparrows which set at my feet asking for a handout I get lost in the moment; forgetting the world and my woes.

By the time I take the first sip of my coffee my pen begins to smear ink on the napkin. Just simply setting outside of the caf looking at the colorful store fronts, listening to the romantic languages, and chasing world class French pastry with a great cup of coffee my mind gives birth to words. The words find the way to my pen as if I am not participating in the act of writing. When I attempt to force the words they become as suborn as a teenager who won’t do their homework on a Friday night.

This brings out my styling of writing, but what if I wanted to write a poem in the styling of Robert Frost? I find a remote forest and dig my heels in until I have a poem about a man of solitude or the color of the sky over a wooded meadow.

Inspiration often finds me when I am not looking. The ring of a word may burst a damn filled with words. It might be a person walking down the street as in a poem I wrote while attending a poetry reading at a coffee shop. I looked out the window to see a young African-American girl eyeing the occupants of the building. I could see she wanted to enter and join us but she didn’t. I could see the reluctance in her face because the guests were well dressed college professors and students who drove up in expensive cars. She was dressed in shabby hand me down clothing and would have been the only African-American in attendance.

But I believe the biggest source of inspiration for me is a poem written by, in my opinion, the greatest poet in history-Walt Whitman. He wrote from the every day and the extra ordinary; he wrote from life. I have the poem: “Poets to Come” framed in a frame which is old and fitting for Whitman’s work. In his poem he challenges us to be better than himself and to “justify” him. At times I am lost, but I try to remember my roots set deep in America and live and write of and from life. Life is inspiringly full of stories and poems.