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“I can hear my muse whispering tenderly in my ear. There is a story that wants to be told, and I'm merely its chosen vessel.”
                                                                          ~ Dipa Sanatani

Long ago, I heard a gentle voice whispering,
but when I turned around, no one was there.
I continued looking for a while, hoping to see
the speaker I sensed still lingered nearby.

It was as if an angel from celestial skies
was hovering over me, filling my mind.
She fed me lines of emotional words 
I'd been hard pressed to find.
Sonnets born as my pen wrote
pages of romantic expressions. 

Descriptive Haiku of pastoral scenes
with flora and fauna, verdant hills,
viridian seas, and rows of gently swaying tulips
blowing in the breeze. Nuanced views to me.

The melodious voice belonged to a muse 
who has helped me "trip the light fantastic."
Those were her recurring words as she taught 
me to dance in shimmering silver moonlight
with my choice of partners among the stars.
She opened the bars of my cage
and chased me out when I hesitated to fly.

She laughed like a faerie at my rebellious nature,
this glorious entity who once scolded me 
for fearing to write about passion in detail, 
the heartbreaking pain of lost loves
and the finality of a last breath before death.

She's a gypsy, wandering in the night,
or an intruder in my dreams. 
Sighing when I refuse to heed her wake-up call.
She's an angel, a sylph, a goddess in lace and silk, 
a temptress with windblown hair, but her face?
I've never been allowed to see that part of her,
though not veiled, she turns when I try to peek.

She smells of lavender in spring, sweet scent of roses
each summer, and as I slumber in autumn,
she sings with cinnamon breath. In the chill of winter
she whets my pen to write images of falling snow.
She's a hearth fire burning bright, my mystical muse.

Never am I audacious enough to summon her to me, 
for she appears unbidden, giving voice to my quill.
I admit she often takes leave without a word
of farewell, but when I hear a whisper in my ear,
a smile forms on my lips for I know my gypsy muse 
has returned from wherever she's journeyed.
I've asked her where it is she goes on her travels.
A titter of laughter was all I heard until she spoke. 

"Somewhere between the breadth of cornflower skies
and the unfathomable depths of emerald, green seas."



January 5, 2023
My Muse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by:  Gina McIntosh
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