a poem about this
a poem about that
a poem with a bit of gunfire,
rat-a-tat-tat
they have their own minds
throw themselves down on a page
I don’t dare to stop them
I’ve reached a seasoned age
Who am I channeling?
It certainly cannot be Plath or Poe
My stuff is upbeat,
I do not do depression or woe
My muse is in charge
Trixie is her given name
She’s persistent and relentless
A do-something dame
A soft wind whispers
early September.
The year is passing
and you are closed
for good.
You were more
than brick and mortar—
You had a heart.
Now you rest in shadows
in the downtown.
You still bear the voices
of those who came in
for a burger or a drink
also playing video games
or sports.
I still hold in my heart
how you cared for
the servers working
their way through college.
They were the dearest friends.
But mostly I remember
the Friday nights when
I stood on the dining porch
and you urged me to sing.
I still hear the applause.
I still hold dear the night
when I painted a waterfall
while nursing a drink
in your loft.
O how a blank canvas came to life.
Each morning the sun shines
but your lights are off.
Sparrows dance in the sidewalk
and chatter by the front steps.
But as I drive and take a look
I sing my song for you.
Find the source wherefrom thoughts arise
To which end, our will we must bend
That in silence, each breath sunrise
Melding with the void, we ascend
First things first, this truth we must know
Find the source wherefrom thoughts arise
By whose power does our heart glow
Where lies the light that lights our eyes
Life script spun seems a web of lies
We feel we’re in a lucid dream
Find the source wherefrom thoughts arise
In repose atop love’s moonbeam
Staid silence seems the only way
So we cease to weigh, judge and size
Holding patterns of old at bay
Find the source wherefrom thoughts arise
There’s something at the bottom of This bottle.
I know it.
Not quite sure what it is yet,
But there’s something down there;
There has to be.
Is it a solution?
God no.
Is it a sense of satisfaction?
Most definitely not.
But the process of finding
Whatever it is
Sometimes gives me
A temporary sense of peace.
Sometimes.
Most times though…
Let’s not focus on that.
Focus on the warm and fuzzy feeling
I get from my search.
If it feels this good now,
It has to feel that much better
When I find whatever’s down there.
I don’t know what’s down there,
But I’ll drown trying to find it.
.
yesss
hern purty sat nimbly
in hern
sky blue strapless
tube
az mine eyne
tip-toe'd to thuh
edge
.
if'n i stop mine think's
drip
Exspecially 'bout
herz
Exspecially in theirn
Purest prurient presence
Attract'n mine 'lone
i may touch one uv
thoze flowerz
.
in thuh cup uv mine
dukes
her taut
rest'n
moaning
each syllable
pellucidly
i hear her
happy 'bout my back
home
,)
My country, it is not the sweet Portugal
AND yet I love Fado, the wine of the Douro,
My country is not beautiful Italy, nor Rome,
And yet I love Naples, Palermo, and Florence,
It’s not Haiti or Salvador de Bahia,
It’s the Dolce Vita and Eight and a half, in black and white,
I like all the films by Fellini or Antonioni,
My country, it is not the illustrious talkative France
AND yet I like Jurançon and Monbazillac,
I like beef bourguignon and duck with orange,
My country, it’s not California, or Utah,
AND yet I like Monument Valley, Hollywood Boulevard,
I love the Grand Canyon and Los Angeles at night,
My country, it is not so political Turkey,
But I love Istanbul and sleepy Cappadocia,
It’s the Dolce Vita and Eight and a half, in black and white,
My country is the cinema, it’s the privileged place
Where will the train stop from your indolent and black eyes,
It is beyond, the bridge of lascivious embraces, the bridge of the Iroise
It’s the country I like when you play for me alone, O my action.
NB La Dolce Vita and eight and a half, are two masterpieces by Fellini.
What secrets of the Muse's rhyme,
skirt on the edge of our perception?
What fate can be known by metric time,
or prophecy by taut inspection?
The path she offers invites echoes,
of lives half-lived and dreams half-dreamt,
of pasts that form our tomorrows,
that few aspire beyond attempt.
Parnassus chooses whom so it will.
To the fated, it shares its mysteries,
but one must choose its bitter pill,
to resolve the trajectories.
The obscure rhythms of the poet's soul,
splashed against a domed, cryptic sky,
fulfill a cosmic, unique role,
that only seers behold with an inward eye.
When the muse leaves, his quill runs dry;
then joyful songs, sweet poetry,
drain from his pen, though write he try,
as hollow strains lack symmetry.
How then to woo the Muse once more?
Her treason robs him of his art.
What offerings, what gifts, might restore
against the whims of a Muse's heart?
But love is mild, and then patient:
love waits, with no pose or pretense.
His heart still burns incandescent
for her. To restore her, no expense
will be spared. And though she feels distant,
his constant heart will break her whim.
She'll not remain, forever transient,
but turn her radiant face to him.
Novelty of its sound never obsolete
Awarded from childbirth, a clean slate
Morphed into dichotomy- pride and conceit,
Etched into identity as an innate trait
if space be dense and the worlds but bubbles ~
are not thoughts then the cause of our troubles
S anded mornings glow with pale sunlight—
E choes of summer linger in dew and drifting leaves.
P ause here: feel the momentum of change, gentle yet relentless.
T rees shed their green illusions, showing truths beneath.
E very breath becomes a meditation on impermanence.
M oments stretch in golden hush, inviting reflection.
B eyond sight lies memory’s echo, and memory shapes our gaze.
E arth’s cycle reminds us: endings birth beginnings.
R est in the flow of time, rooted yet reaching.
But yes, I tell my muse, we will be together until the end
She is relieved, having spent so much time fixing me
Correcting me, inspecting me, subjecting me to her will.
I am seventy-three as of yesterday, so I know she was worried.
Wondering if I was done; I am not seasoned, I am old.
I refuse to admit this, dying my hair burgundy, wearing go-go boots.
Poetry is my fourth hobby, but it is a part of my soul now.
My self-inflicted goal is ten poems a day.
I have been able to meet this goal for five years now.
But yes, I say to my muse. No worries.
You will be with me until my hands and head no longer move
And my brain figures out where we go after this earth life.
Poets,
Scribbling soulmates, yet
Artists.
Specific Types of Muse Poems
Definition | What is Muse in Poetry?
Poems Related to Muse
ponder, ruminate, brood, consider, deliberate, feel, percolate, moon, roll, reflect, contemplate, meditate, revolve, weigh, cogitate, speculate, think, turn over, be lost in thought, build castles in air, chew over, mull over, puzzle over, think over,