Ian H. Finn

Ode to the Beats

Ode to the Beats
Who sat nodding their heads unaware of what was being said
Who raised brows at sentences they knew nothing of
To cool to confront their truth
To frightened to become uncool
Pretending to know Mr. Solomon
Pretending to understand existence within Interzone
Who yearned to be on the road
But did not possess the balls
Ode to the Beats who birthed the Hippies
Who founded words for our generations
Tea head and junk
In their worn Levis
And scarred forearms they spoke
Oblivious to influence and the titles they would later embody
Me who admires them for what they never knew
Residual impact of those paragraphs aged a fine as wine
Ode to the Beats who did as they pleased
Who walked, talked, sang and fucked as they sought
They cared not for judgement of prose
but strongly of words that rebelled against foes
And it was earned
Line for line
Tear for tear
Together they were victorious
We now search for the reignition of the pen
Ode to them
Who lived as they thought.

Muse of Creation

To give inspiration feels how?
To receive is easily described by a man who has felt its importance.
Lost in a time that feeds off the souls of the irresolute
The uninspired, the seeking beasts of art, they are everywhere.
To proud to ask for their drug of choice
and to special to acknowledge that we are not.
We struggle internally believing that this is what gives us inspiration.
We stay in solitude looking for what delivers the deepest depression.
Hoping that this will then somehow set our hands in motion
Only then we can create.
Rainbows and Giraffes surround us but we ignore them
Searching for roaches and rats in our pursuit of art.
To create is what we yearn for, the process loses importance.
The journey we embark on is forgotten and deemed blah.
Blah blah blah blah
And then the final intention.
It is done, ready to be shared with the world.
A world who will judge, ridicule and ruin what has been created.
No one cares how it came to exist, interested only in its present.
But I have found my peace in creations' inspiration.
The catalyst which sparks the movement.
That which gives rise to the process.
I have left judgement for others and can turn my back on creation.
It is finished it is done and pride comes to me through her.
The created reminds of the struggle and all that has occurred.
I can now close my eyes in comfort.
I am safe and in days to come I will be inspired again.
Does she know that she is the inspirator?
Maybe she will never know for my words have been frozen to her.
Sacred is she who enables creation.

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