One Muse, One Poet, And A Bit Of Seasoning....Then Walla!!

I find my muse in

the wee hours of mourn,

after I have cleared

the cobwebs of the day

with sweeping hands over

the keys that lead to solace.

<>

My muse is a fickle pickle,

sometimes so very sweet,

like the rarest candy

cucumbered and unencumbered....

by the failings and flailings

of one mortal soul.

<>

Yet at other times 

it presents itself  

so sour and dour that nothing

but saliva pours from my mouth,

when I read back what

inspiration failed to bring

to maturation.

<>

My muse is found most often

between the pressed

pages of a dusty dictionary,

with eyes closed and

a finger blindly stabbing

at one word, any word

that can become kindling

to inspirations sparks.

<> 

Often my muse is rubber banded

and tossed overhanded

in newsprint on the concrete

that leads to my abode.

<>

I wallow in the three ring

circus that advertises there.

the suffer-ring, the warmonger-ring,

and the weather-ring of all of

mankinds assets due to greed, lust,

angst, and apathy neatly

scripted in black and white.

<> 

But the muse that I enjoy most

comes not from wallows

in the hollows known

as depression

but rather from long walks

on an empty beach,

where I seem as small

as one of the endless grains

of sand tossed and churned.

 <>

Or in a pause to gaze

into the depths of a tulip

at the kaliedascope of

God's wonders displayed.

<>

I find most of my words

in the silence of a kiss,

when laughter whispers

in my eyes,

and love is warm

upon my fingertips.

<>

And I am not surprised

to find my muse in Music,

I own seven guitars and

a piano that can carry me

like a tightrope walker

perfectly balanced over

even tighter wound coils of steel

stretched to perfection.

<> 

Each note can become

another note not of sound but

of words poetically sung and strung

across many pages.

<>

And though I am not morbid,

a cemetery makes a lovely

setting for thoughts to be

resurrected amongst all those

who are no more.

<>

The dead speak in

silent tongues

and a soul above them

can be moved

to relay their legacy.

<> 

But I am finding my muse most,

in the musings of others,

a gathering of poetic peers

such as here, where I can

concoct poems such as this one

flavored by the Seasoning

of another who is

simply seeking her own muse.

<>

We must not hunt for our muse,

it is always sitting quietly

in the barrel of a pen,

or waiting with a sharp point

on the end of a pencil.

<>

It meets me in the shadows

to the left of my

keyboard and monitor,

and whispers possibilties

as I sit and compose hope

with each amd every stroke.

 <>

Thus comes this poem,

numbered eleven hundred

and eighty-two

courtesy of you,

today's seasoning for me,

you are my muse in this moment

and for that I thank you,

and present you with this write

that I felt should be left.

 

<>

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~MFB III

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Comments 5 comments

debugs profile image

debugs 6 years ago from Odessey777, Umbris

lovely!


poetlorraine 6 years ago

wonderful, yes i think that graveyards are great places to find a muse........


ladyjane1 profile image

ladyjane1 6 years ago from Texas

Yea my muse hovers over me in the wee hours of the morn as well. Nice poem.


I*n*v*i*c*t*u*s profile image

I*n*v*i*c*t*u*s 6 years ago

lovely, oh the muses are everywhere! :)


Miss Take 6 years ago

right left, muse oh this is awesome.... thanks so much..... more muses than poems help

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