Long Muses Poems
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February fourth, slumped and stoned
your face, again lit up my phone
not even a month and you were in my home
why did I start to miss being alone?
We tried to take each other out
every word, I’d choke from doubt
this was not really meant for me
rose red colours were all you could see.
You planned our future down to our fridge
as we walked across the bridge
my head was loud and so unsure
that you would want this, if you knew more
because
I wasn’t all that well, didn’t mean to cast a spell
you’d have me cursing my own wishing well.
Those days were endless
there was no cheat
for such a loveless pain,
I could barely eat
there were tears and there was fear
because my life had ended up here.
So I had to tell you, when April came
I was reeling, nearly insane
and it probably felt like I’d played a game
but I owed you the truth, I owed you the pain.
We never spoke, not one more time
the months flew by, I would feel fine
you did nothing wrong, I hope you know
my head was the reason I had to go.
All my muses have become my bruises
but you’re not a wound I wear.
What can I do when the spring runs dry?
Words refuse to come,images die
In the desert of the mind,only drought
No oasis in sight,there's none about
The searing sun of silence allows for no shade
Where the dues of poetry must be fully paid
In this harsh light there is no chiaroscuro
No verse of any kind can I beg or borrow
But tired I must trudge on, bruised,broken and weary
Until I find the land of poetry near me.
Prayers to the aloof Muses I must invoke
To release me from this arid desert's grim yoke
If they would but kindly choose to hear and listen
My Pierian spring might once again glisten
Women, secret priestesses of the soul and undying dream,
Whispering ancestral secrets woven in the threads of destiny,
Knowing men like parchments deciphered under the full moon’s glow,
Understanding every hidden longing, each impenetrable dream, and every unspoken whisper.
They weave knowledge from the deep, dark, and luminous recesses of their hearts,
Sensing all that men can become, like storms rising from deep waters or gentle hills,
All they desire, their wishes sculpted in the shadows of unspoken dreams,
All they are, faces shaped from rock and waves, willows swayed by the wind.
Women are architects of destinies shrouded in mystery,
Creating worlds from the butterflies of the soul, laying out landscapes from the beats of our hearts,
Reading us like unwritten verses in ancient psalms,
Dancing their magic around us, crafting cloaks of pure love.
They are those undeciphered enigmas, where each smile is a spell,
Every gesture, a stanza from an archaic poetry, every touch, a sacred incantation,
They know when to lift us up and when to bring us back to earthly realms,
With a love that carries depth and gentleness untold through eternities.
Women are falling stars weaving their light into the horizon,
Reading our dreams and fears like silent constellations,
Nothing escapes them, neither wind, nor storm, nor hidden desire,
They are the poets of life, whose verse is the secret of the universe itself.
In their eyes reflects the entire cosmos, like in azure crystal mirrors,
They extend their soul like a bridge between the temporal and the eternal,
Always knowing what we can become, as they feel our destiny in the silence of infinity,
Becoming our muses and guides, showing us the path beneath starry skies.
Women are those eternal stories, flowing through time like sacred rivers,
Enchanting us with their songs, embracing us with warm thoughts,
Knowing that, in their absence,
We would be wanderers in the night without a beacon, lost in a boundless dream.
Women, wise in silences and dreams, know everything about us,
Like an aurora discovered in a night of secrets,
They read our hearts in the pulse of the universe and the whispers of stellar tranquility,
And thus, through them, we become endless travelers in the eternal light of destiny.
A Wordsmith’s pen
Is mightier than the sword
For he can turn a tricky word
Into a verbal weapon
And win the day against the hoard
The words of the Bard
It’s not very hard
The turn of a friendly card
The changing of the old guard
The wicked witch is feathered and tarred
The sky above is dark and starred
It’s feeling out loud
The dancing of spirit abounds
The singing of the soul
The mind and body are whole
Although sometimes it makes no sounds
Manifestations of mental visions
Put to paper by steward, or vassal
On cotton, leather or papyrus passel
Seeing illusions and derisions
Inside the book, the bookmark’s tassel
Of words and dreams, and fantasies
Muses and fancies
Blissful and blithe
Demons and monsters, and zombies alive
Somehow the dead come back to life
Shadows and shades of torment
Ghouls and ghosts, and wraiths
Humans tear at their at the clothes and lament
And prophets forecast and forebode advent
Fortune tellers and soothsayers say
The mind screaming in pain
Devotion and emotion
Evolution and convolution
The sane are temporarily insane
The brain suffers erosion
To purify what has been defiled
Or deride what is pretentious
Celebrate what is momentous
Of the humors; blood and bile
Are both infectious
Soul speak
Affirmation of thought and deed
The lookers seek
All of those who have a need
Reap of the sown seed
Strong encourage the weak
Travels in time and place
Exploring inner and outer space
The Children of the Is
Sing the songs that were once His
Though the Old Man’s dead and gone
His legacy lives on
From dusk ‘till dawn
Memories in tome eternal
Glimpses of Heaven
Thoughts of Hades infernal
Rolling sevens and elevens
Immortal mortals
Of a limited time
Speaking in riddles and rhymes
This poem a babbling run-on thing
Pondering, wandering and wondering
A beautiful mind
It should be dismantled and dismembered
Fuses blown, circuits fried, wires unwind
The Dancing divine
When remembered…
Welcome to the land of Me.
The land of hope, the island of see.
I do my best to uplift faeries, muses and elf.
In particular, I lift myself.
Joyous I am, on a daily scale, from bed to door….
For I am a poet, a painter, a cartoonist, and more.
My hobbies keep me fresh and happy.
I value my imagination, like my pappy.
My stories are amazing, some touch on the truth.
I have friends from my childhood like my friend Ruth.
I all in love with people like a giant Great Dane pup.
Everyone is welcome to join me at my coffee cup.
My days are filled with fun and frolic, for sure.
My husband will tell you my heart is pure.
The secret to staying fun at seventy, is this.
In the mirror daily, blow yourself a little kiss.
I like the me that I have become.
I play as eagerly as a circus bum.
I dance my truth, and I nurture my soul.
To be myself is my hourly goal.
A nobler theme needs more sublime art
In order to its honorable nuances impart;
And thus may famous muses of niftier writ
More tastefully craft this little lyrical script.
And if generous gods of superior rhyme there be,
Who with pure ease mellifluous tunes compose,
Then may such these tottering lines indite with me
And delve deep where rarest musical gems repose.
Where do love’s purest pearls lie
Beneath this bland ancient sky;
Where hug and kiss their warmest
Elusive touch pulsate at its best?
Truth is maimed and denied its form
And falsehood has become the norm;
Who knows any place she still thrives
Wholly unsevered by knavish knives?
And hope no longer blossoms
As it did in sweeter days of yore,
Now she’s worn out to the bottoms
And angst and doubt rule to the core.
And peace completely extinct is:
Chaos and strife now carry the day
And gallivant about in their hubris,
As mourning sufferers tearfully pray.
Have met many a Muse,
muses of music, art, and dance;
seen Pandora's jar of evil and blues,
followed the thread of fate seeking a chance.
Have an artistic lover,
a male Muse who above my pen will hover;
but, leaves me often to go deep undercover.
Been to places of woe,
places where my faith can grow;
and sometimes I am lost in the snow.
But, the Muse within me is beautiful and unique,
where my own creativity can pique;
where my own inspiration will creak and peak,
yes, I am a Muse quite mystique.
_______________________
March 22, 2021
Poetry/Rhyme/The Muse in Me
Copyright Protected, ID 22-
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Not for a contest.
The Greek poet Hesiod, really knew his stuff
He told of the trials and tribulations, and all that mythological fuss
Sired by Poseidon as the horse-god, foaled by Medusa with snake hair
Pegasus born a winged horse divine; to others it was not fair
His mother died decapitated, by young Perseus son of Zeus
Some say it was as her blood stained the ground, and that was her use
Zeus took this winged horse and sent him to thunder bring
Because he wanted to be thunder holder, as he was the Olympian King
Pegasus the bringer, of aqua springs wherever his feet touched
Sent by Poseidon to mount Helicon, to stop it swelling too much
The rapturous songs of the muses,
Poseidon thought the Mount would explode
Pegasus did alight, to lighten the pressure untold.
Zeus then took Pegasus, after many exciting excursions
A wondrous thunder carrying beast
And to lighting he had no aversions.
He placed him the sky as Pegasus the constellation
As we search the skies we see him, he is there for the duration.
© GG 17/06/2013
Italy has awesome snow-capped Alps,
breathtaking sceneries that emit sighs;
how majestic are the rocky Dolomites,
how pretty are the undulating flowers!
Italy is the country of many wonders,
a unique place, a birthplace of muses;
meet the friendliest people ever seen:
see beauty, dream with your queen!
People came to dwell in these calm vallies,
never losing their identity over centuries;
they became Italians, tolling the rich farmland,
building cottages from the stones they found!
Going further down the scenery changes drastically,
turning idyllic and green: there stands Florence,
the Renaissance Lady who instilled in Dante romance;
anyone creating art was welcomed with courtesy!
Italy is the country of many wonders,
a wolf lady nurtured two adorable twins:
Romulus became the founder of Rome,
Michelangelo built Saint Peter's dome!
Travelling South, we meet vibrant Naples,
the queen of the Mediterranean Sea delights;
ah, Pompei is sadness, Amalfi is happiness:
soak up its sunshine, or stroll with tourists!
Italy is a country of many wonders,
Palermo was the center of various cultures;
King Frederick II made it the Stupor Mundi:
poetry was revived by Cavalcanti!
Emily urges me forward, to look at my most innocent self
She is all about romance, yearning for more of it.
I am not sure if she ever experienced it in real life,
however, her words are true and I understand her need.
We sit in silence, contemplating my next poem
I do not write flowery stuff, I telepath to her.
I hear a tiny bit of laughter.
Are you really Emily? I ask or is this Sylvia?
My poems have been really dark lately.
I sense they are both here.
Fighting over me.
Coleridge is trying to shout them both down.
He wants me to pay attention, so I can write like he does.
I scoff at this idiocy.
The pressure puts me into a prone mood.
I lie down, and let my eyes gently flutter shut,
relaxing in the midst of my muses' argument for my soul.
Knowing Trixie will be along shortly to kick them all out.