Long My muse Poems
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My ideas are in hiding
Afraid of the secret police
For they are in Kansas City
My poems are not wanting to goosestep
I hear glass breaking
It does not wake me up at first
But when it does I am in Portland
And my poem is standing on a man’s neck
I am screaming for it to get off
He is yelling that he cannot breathe.
Terror infiltrates me as I realize I am paralyzed.
I can hear my heartbeat; double-time now.
My ideas are in a fetal position, lying under benches.
Visualizing concentration camps
Oh, excuse ME! Internment camps.
Children being torn from their mother’s arms.
Crying and wailing. Cages. Dirty rotten government men.
My poems are turning themselves into stories.
I am no help. I am paralyzed. Cannot stop the thoughts though.
Swastikas are swirling around which is not comfortable.
Now the Klan! Are you kidding?
I am being marched out by chicken white hooders.
My writing is holding its breath, lying in wait
Thinking I will return. I may never be the same.
This new development has me buckling at my knees.
Someone cracks me across them with a whip.
Someone speaks German at me.
Crapppp! I barely know English.
That’s a good one my muse says, making a note.
I try to wake up, but there is someone sitting on my neck.
I cannot breathe.
I struggle,
I scream
Nothing comes out.
My worst nightmare, and of course it is three a.m.
The time I always have to go to the bathroom.
Something big is sitting on my neck and my head.
I give up, not caring about anything except breathing now.
It’s the Covid 19, my muse says. We are obsessed with it
I am so irritated, for it might not be my muse.
It might be another personality; I have plenty of them.
I sit quietly, waiting for the urge to write to pass.
Unfortunately, it never does.
Unfinished Nightmare
Mouth agape
trash can lid arches limply
its hinged spine
like that of partial paragraphs
clinging
broken
yet refusing to let go
How gauze-like
the yellowed reflection
staring back from shattered temper-enhanced mirror
clinging also
defying decayed adhesive
refusing like me to accept
the dry erosion of once anchored purpose
I gaze
deep into the opened sanctuary
a place where discarded failure finds solace
glaring back at me
it continues its vigil
reminding the writer has produced but throwaway
Open-mouthed gluttony
grins patiently
crumpled pages like meatless bones
fantasy feast
mere table scraps
drop willingly to appease
if not satiate
Shrill words retch forth
pleading to be more than just letters in free fall
find air void of oxygen
fall leaden
but empty
condors and sparrows without wings
Unfinished manuscripts cry to live
to know
to hear
created epiphanies
read and embraced
The involuntary voice shouting back at my muse
rides triumphantly atop the wrinkled failure of drunken words
falls seductively past the gaping mouth
sliding between the sheets of other near misses
continuing the downward vortex
sending shivers of nourishment to
one’s abyss of failure
where no one
patiently waits
abides
understands
smiles
Pauli
Music, – my Muse, my comforter, my companion –
the soul in, the spirit of, the cleanser of, – empty hours –
washing away all the debris, all that lives in the void ,
filling in that black hole abyss with light and substance
- elements, dormant - bringing to life that which lays within,
that which lives in the light and life of so many others.
In this state, I wonder ?, can it be my madness
that drives my thoughts of you that become my folly.
Could it be ?, my desire to live out my dream
that now seems to leave me, inserting me into darkness,
in the cold, in another void, in another abyss
that leaves me to wonder ?, why another nightmare ?
Music, – my Muse, my comforter, my companion –
cloaks my soul, baths my spirit in light to enlighten.
to lighten that heavy load of pursuing many an illusion.
We delude, and my world is but a tear drop in life’s oceans
B. J. “A ” 2
September 25th 2004
At first, the view from my window looks bare;
abandoned streets and empty parking lots.
Yet things I hadn't before now, noticed there,
entice my muse and captivate my thoughts.
A pigeon lands on my balcony rail;
its iridescent feathers inked with light.
And as though this virus lifted a veil;
suddenly, its beauty came into sight.
While Nature can't be corralled or contained;
this lockdown allows me to observe Her.
And when anxieties and nerves get stained,
She reduces white noise to a whisper.
Though my body is under quarantine,
my mind is as free as it's ever been.
I have pages of unfinished poems, most a menial scribble.
Thoughts, simple phrases, baited hooks without a nibble.
Rhyming lines lost like balls because of my faulty dribble
or tossed aside because my muse and I began to quibble.
How many romantic sonnets were derelicts in my head
because I didn't note them; too lazy to rise from my bed?
Unwritten, they expired when from my mind they fled.
In dawn's light they were buried as my tears were shed.
Departed is the beauty of verses that might have been,
and if I'm recognized as a 'poet,' I would consider it a sin.
I can hardly bear their death; executed like Anne Boleyn,
and its shame I feel for the loss. I'm riddled with chagrin.
I wish those phrases had burrowed deep inside my mind,
those I no longer recall. The forsaken ones I left behind,
abandoned unintentionally, those I have hastily maligned
with neglect or passivity. To grieve for them, I am resigned.
Should I pen a plethora of poems and ten thousand more,
my guilt would never be erased, so I write this with candor
and a pledge to face this litany that I undertake as a chore,
to value my flowing thoughts as ones I should never ignore.
October 7th, 2022
A poem a day is never my way,
sometimes I’ll write nine in a week.
But I feel it’s absurd there is never a word
when my muse has decided to sleep!
She can sleep like a bear and she doesn’t care
if all winter she leaves me alone.
But when she comes back from having her nap
it’s clear that her fantasies roam!
Then most every day she must have her say
and keeps nagging at me all the time.
She won’t go away until I will play
and put all her words into rhyme!
You see it’s my muse who the subject does choose
but in thinking in rhyme she is crap.
We make a good team or so it would seem,
but she never lets me take a nap!
But when all’s said and done it’s really quite fun
and usually worth all the pain.
Though deprived of my sleep I really would weep
if I never could find her again!
When reading my verse remember my curse
though I sign all the work in my name.
It’s the way of the world whatever’s unfurled
that my muse is in charge of the game!
Ivor G Davies
I wrote this one for fun I think
the last one was orange and pink
a third poem is dancing inside my head
I should capture it and go to bed
imagination is playing with me
laughing at my mirth and glee
giving me ideas that won’t go away
so I have to stay up and do more play
writing to me is an instant thing
words ping onto a page with sling and zing
I wrote this one almost in my sleep
writing is fun, as words prance and creep
they won’t leave me alone until on a page
I throw them down violently sometimes in a rage
my muse is very much in charge of me
giving me ideas with mirth and glee.
My muse stopped by today
He knew he’d find me home
With this current virus
I seldom outside roam
The Governor’s making changes
Things are freeing up a bit
I sense with all this “freedom
Corona deaths may take a hit.
So many resist face covering
It seems an overbearing task
To slip behind that silly thing
When in public: Wear a mask
When I’m out & about
I see a “no mask” comin’
I step off to the curb
I don’t care to see’em grinnin’
I’ve seen some blow their snot
On the grass & on the walk
Where little neighbor kids
Draw pictures there with chalk
Folks think it’s only grey hairs
Daily dying from this stuff
But a growing number of kids
Are having it awfully ruff
Some may think the “old timers”
Are all ‘huddled’ in care-centers
So they can’t get it from others
Unless someone, outside enters.
Essential workers & suppliers
Must come and go each day
If one of them gets it from you
It spreads so easily that way.
I wear a mask for many reasons
Fear may head that list
But care and respect for others
I might offer here as a gift
Do I think they do much good?
That’s questionable as best
I believe they offer folks comfort
That’s enough to pass my test
For years there have been signs
On doors you enter by
No shirt, no shoes, no service
Today I wonder why?
Many claim "so loudly” today
Their ‘rights’ are being taken
As though “Basic Freedoms”
Have suddenly been shaken
This temporary bother
Of putting on a mask
Will surely not be extended
To an every lasting task
“They can’t tell us what to do!”
“We citizens have our rights!”
Although we can’t run naked
We have to wear our tights ;o)
We’re told to walk & don’t walk
With the blinking of a sign
Your dog poops in a park thicket
You will get the ticket. :o)
Next time you’re in a theatre
The crowd is still and quiet
Don’t stand and yell out FIRE
You might surely start a riot.
So you selfish “no mask” champs
Just go along your way
My only hope is, if there’s harm
It’s you that has to pay. ;o(
Written by oldbuck 5/24/2020
In the midst of the pandemic.
Coleridge once wrote of the Khan’s pleasure dome
Where Mnemosyne, the mother of muses did roam
And her daughter, Caliope, was the muse of epic poetry
Gave rise to Orpheus, who joined Jason on his odyssey
His love, Eurydice was killed while dancing to his tune
A beautiful nymph, the daughter of Apollo, died to soon
Tragedy and comedy underlie classic Greek Mythology
And while ancient in deed, is the basis of psychology
Thus when the creativity springs from my inner mind
I recognize my source of beauty, the special muse behind
Humble poet, graced by a lovely and elegant guiding sprite
A heavenly creature that slips into my dreams in the night
In deed and thought she shines golden light on Earth
Like the starry celestial orb guiding lost sailors to the North
Perhaps she is unaware of her power, unaware of her love
But all I can say is that she is my muse, shinning from above
I wish I had a twentieth of the confidence of
My muse name of Trixie sent down from above
If you want a picture, it is okay with her
She is always in pose position; self-confidence a whirr.
She sits by the beach thinking up new stuff to write.
I have tried to disagree, but she always wins the fight.
Her imagination prances in and out of my brain all the time.
She demands her own way, and it is usually quite fine.
She is petite and pretty, attractive to both women and men.
She claims she is tri-sexual, so that is where I must begin.
She is a lively little intelligent bundle of wow from her head to her feet.
She insists on her own way, and frankly, her way cannot be beat.
Once upon a time I would try harder to get my own way.
I would cross out and scribble and change words all day.
But in the end, it seems like I always relented, coming soon back
To the way Trixie wrote the poem in the first place
with full-blown-muse confidence I often lack.