Someone once asked me where I get inspiration for my writing. I think this lightly edited poem written nearly 50 years ago may be the best answer I have. And yes, those mad men do whisper still.
Whisperings of Mad Men
From when I was young, until even now It seems they’ve always been there From sorrow to joy, and hate to love They’ve followed me everywhere
When thinking of you, or thinking of me Or thinking nothing at all When I’m in a crowd, or by myself I constantly hear their call
They come and they go, and they linger on And they beckon me away They whisper to me, of sights unseen And of times far from today
They speak of the past, and futures unknown And wonders I’ll never see Of eternal truth, and timeless lies The world that was meant to be
Whether I gain fame, or die unknown Or live till I’ve had my fill The one thing I know, to count upon Those mad men will whisper still