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

Updated on February 19, 2010

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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    • profile image

      Miss Take 7 years ago

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

    • I*n*v*i*c*t*u*s profile image

      I*n*v*i*c*t*u*s 7 years ago

      lovely, oh the muses are everywhere! :)

    • ladyjane1 profile image

      ladyjane1 7 years ago from Texas

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

    • profile image

      poetlorraine 7 years ago

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

    • debugs profile image

      debugs 7 years ago from Odessey777, Umbris