I do not scream when it starts.
Just walk barefoot into the forest,
where birch trees bend down to me like elder women,
and the moss knows all of their names.
All of them from my season’s past,
haunting me, scolding me, reminding me of their sacrifices.
Breaking open my flesh, cracking the cavity of my chest,
where all of my rotten fairy tales drip out in despair.
My grief has learned to follow close behind
before it ever learned how to run away.
It lingers behind like steam from a broken kettle,
silent but always seeping through the cracks of my wreckage.
I used to call him father.
Now, he’s just a ghost.
One that carries the reeking of December’s air into my home,
the sound of creaking branches under his lumbering weight.
What holds the echoes of his every scream,
his touch that bruises every soft fruit it touches.
The ghost doesn’t speak.
He caresses my shoulders when I forget him,
pinches my skin when I smile too hard,
leaves my breath in frost every night.
"The Match"
Time falls like a traitor
it smiles at you through mirrors
you see all faces surrounding you
other than your own
each a voice imprinted in your memories
a part of the Word's words,
remonstrations tumbling
through your voiceless throat,
they respond hitting the walls
leaving hollow hieroglyphs
promises that slip,
some self-righteous Umpire
calls the serve landing out of bounds
and doesn’t hesitate to record a fault;
through the backhand grip
your own thoughts
are ghost written volleys
that skim without hesitation
over the net
bouncing towards
the inexperienced experienced
their hearts,
hands, eyes, and lips
the memories are lost in unplugged sockets
still,
they take they’re hit
you smash it back
full hilt;
you think you are electric
time falls like a traitor
and everyone
in their own mind
one way or another
thinks they’re in the game
a winner,
even loser’s think
they’re winners in the end,
they take their hit;
love-all
just the same
and you are lit.
Candide Diderot. ‘25
The house whispers
as I awaken
and a dream plays.
My loft breathes as I get up.
The block on the hill
still after the night’s
storm, and a story
plays in my head
remnants of a love
I once had. The cat
rumbling on my chest.
shares the moment.
…
Tires sing as I drive
along the river
as it takes in reflections
of sun. I’ve viewed
the scene many times.
I’m seeing it again.
Public Radio plays
a feature on psychology
and the triumphs and trials
of life, and I cry out
This is me. This is me.
‘’’
In a diner, dishes clink
and patrons laugh
while elderly cajole
their granddaughters
voices filled with promise
about the lives that lie
ahead.
…
I walk away
from old conversations
the pain felt
after someone left for good
and unanswered questions.
…
I stay true
to one thousand voices
in my head.
A new poem I seek.
Mind opens the floodgates, words wobble in poetic surge.
As we soak the hues of the chromatic sky,
you become the patina of the dainty dawn.
Even in twilight the golden day doesn’t fade,
for in my horizon you’re the sun that never sets.
While the autumn flowers wither in my garden,
I see in you they blossom in everlasting spring.
My yearning flitters like a beguiled butterfly
around your floral charisma that never wanes.
The emotive designer of my dormant dreams,
suffuses the deep sense of passionate feeling.
Swathed by the aura of your enthralling charm,
my mind perceives the epitome of ecstasy.
I sense the sequins of the silver dust,
sprinkled by the mesmeric moonbeam,
ripple within my marooned mind as it floats
on the amorous rhythm of longing.
In the ether of your fervent firmament
I then soar on the lilted wings of lyrical zephyr.
As the melody of love entrances me,
my heart turns for you into, perhaps, a poem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
you are the artist,
and I, the eager canvas,
waiting for your touch,
the flick of your wrist
that turns ordinary moments
into vibrant masterpieces.
for you, my muse,
are the artist of my soul,
the kaleidoscope through which I see,
and in this endless canvas we create,
you bring color into my days,
and I am forever grateful.
On the wind, leaves from oaks bless away
prayers, though silent, leave a gentle grace
like cinnamon, pumpkin spice and gray
blessing so quietly it feels like loves here to stay
soon winter will visit with its chilly embrace
and I’ll hear the joy of Christmas as I pray
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.
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,