Great blessing with faith, God fuses,
Grace in my heart, He infuses,
Thanks and praises, soul profuses,
As His vessel, me He uses,
His love, He never refuses,
Turn from sin, it sure confuses,
Leave away all your excuses,
He will save from all abuses,
Goodness to all, He diffuses,
God's light through heaven suffuses.
Kings drained the goblet
silver and pearlescent.
A sweet odour drifted
coiling heavenward
to feathered cloud spires
where ancient muses chanted
in tongues of mystery
and offered blessed words
inscribed on filigree parchment
engraved with magic images
worthy of few mortals.
Dark velvet curtains hang heavy with hidden
wealth and fear
pearls in jewellery box were stolen at a closed
off sunset near
Muses Silent ! where is my pen as they
wonder what went wrong
will it be ennui or flight as Inspiration crosses
heath field in broken song
childhood, teen, adulthood rolled up in apricot mebos as Time collapses in a heap
Muses curl in darkness sad though summer
seeps
•
gyrating Muses line up before my vision
in an ecstasy of eternal Time precision
their Inspirations transmute ennui and flight
Sweet Muses, I take up pen, with eager might
will it be an anvil, a pearl, a sunset or chiffon
curtains blowing in soft breezy ease, yon ?
•
Never to discover
the limits of soul
Such is the depth
of its station
The nature of being
not what’s distilled
But what’s left
— from evaporation
(Septa R5: March, 2025)
This is for my muse
It’s her thoughts I use
If in doubt, I’ll call her out
When we disagree.
After all she’s me
And I’m glad that she’s about.
Then she’ll go away
On her holiday
So, I’ll wait until she’s back
Ask her what to write
She is always right
My muse’s words never lack.
When I begin to draw
Is it me or someone else?
I do not know where these ideas originate.
One minute I have a blank canvas.
Half hour later I have created a village
Pirate queen, gnomes, faeries, goblins,
Mushroom houses, butterflies, lilies and such
When I begin to write
I also doubt these words are my own.
There is an entity utilizing my hands.
Because after the missive is finished
I do not recognize it.
Sometimes on the same day.
My spirit guides make heavy use of my
Hands; I feel I am not in my body after they take over
Forever using me, while keeping me at arm’s length.
"The Muses"
Allusions
camouflaged confessions
I have read them all, each page
envelopes emptied
turned inside out
pockets of Poésies
they sprinkle their messages
like confetti, minds popping
like corks, frothy and overflowing
some kind celebration
cupped and bled
stories of fairy-flossed confection
the sugar compote
cooked in the head
before dreams
are laid
and set
I have read them all
envelopes emptied
inside out
Allusions
all skipping
the fine lines
locked and open
all sentences
of the muses
a musing
Candide Diderot. ‘24
"I found a grave
Brushed off the face
Felt your light
And I remember why I know this place
I found a bird
Closing her eyes
One last time
And I wonder if she dreamed like me
As much as it hurts
Ain’t it wonderful to feel?
So go on and break your wings
Follow your heart 'til it bleeds..."
allusion. n.
an expression designed to call something to mind without mentioning it explicitly; an indirect or passing reference
I used to scoff at the thought
of Greek nymphs inspiring artists,
but those nine gals, especially
Calliope and Erato blees em,
have moved right in.
They’re a great help
around the house.
I have put them to work
cleaning, tidying, and doing the dishes.
I.C.E. raided my house the other day
wanting to know if I employed illegal aliens.
The girls, forewarned,
hid themselves in a closet.
Small problem,
while I sleep they fill my head
with fanciful gibberish,
lame stuff
which, the next day,
I then have to dump somewhere
and the city flatly refuses
to take them away with the trash.
Wonder
is like Joy
except more below the waist
and less above,
said the Muse
to the Choreographer.
Awe
accompanies Wonder
and yet feels more silent bass
and less trembling treble
cleft,
said the Choreographer
to the RightHand dominant
Composer
Joy sings
overflowing Awesome pelvic dance
more above the neck
and less wondrously below
our DarkWhole sacred chakra
of deep lusty Integrity,
said the Masseur
to the multiculturing Muse,
face down on his table.
Wonder
is like Joy
except more below the waist
and less above,
repeated the Muse
to his hopeful Choreographer.
Delighta did not know whose instructions to take.
Hummingbird in her left ear or monarch in her right?
She picked up a book of faerie spells and ignored them away.
I
The prose & prosaic lives pursuing career
From apartheid in Africa to US freedoms (1983)
Poets voices muted, too much hunger
The luxury of democracy, enduring systems
Of dispossession, of marginalising, silencing
With vigilante foes of one's own kind - for fame? -
Yet systems of food distribution, & of medicines
Need democracy, too, urgent reform
Pandemics reinforce the civilized caste sytem
II
Is there a military-pharma-cyber mafia?
What will my pen say - or my spirit say -
When the prosaic careers go silent
The itch to write nudges me to poetry
For the likes of Patience Worth (d.1641)
Quaker girl worked fingers to the bone
Yet desired art of writing, exploring ... Now
The unraveling of time: Pearl Curran became her pen
400 years later! There is a colonial captive
A hidden teacher-philosopher from Old Afrik, here
Telling of a tax-technology-robotic civilization
Of new high priests, go-betweens in art, science, family
Sleepy in the lap of Muses
I saw outside of a dream, the reflection of a Christmas Tree.
Distant and yet so close.
Beyond the glass yet still near.
I saw, its needles of poverty piercing the thick skin of Tory Goblins.
I saw its once pretty coloured lights starved of feed,dimmed into darkness.
I saw a crippled Fairy, rotting and naked slumped into, a damp carboarded shop doorway.
A twelve year famine as a pillow.
I saw stars hanging on shortcord,
their twinkle measured in cash.
I saw coloured candles, meant for joy, instead used to warm broken hearts.
I saw the past years crumble,
cobwebb strewn,tearfull but not happy.
I saw the reflection die, and many eyes closed to care and compassion.
And still the Muses comforted me,
In their Mother like, safe Lap.
There was a time I couldn't see God at all –
my good muse came to me in many blossoms,
the elevating scent and beauty of such creation
was my lift to higher realms
There was a time, I did not believe there was a God –
Muse came to me in the form of a grade-school teacher
who told me, I was worth any suffering
There was a time when God was simply a myth,
till a loving wife and birth of a child taught the meaning
of presence
Whatever the good muse, where you and the muse have gathered
in good faith,
there also is God.....
To be inspired, I suck the Muses' breasts;
and, like young babes that thirst for tender milk,
and for health from their mother's nippled chests,
I champ the teats sublime for strains of silk.
O god-like breasts from whence beauteous rhyme
proceeds and flows (which sustain with dulcet songs),
what swan, what bard, what poet can these feast-time
glands make go wrong!? Their nourishment makes them strong.
O thou bare-bosom'd Muses so divine!
Be all mine, and I'll be thine: for as heir,
I'll glut earth with breastmilk's rhymes, line by line,
so all men grow through verses everywhere.
O Muses! With potent breasts so nourishing,
soon all the world's souls will be flourishing.
The words are dazzling, razzling, ripping and roaring.
I cannot tear them out of my mind fast enough.
They are chastising, criticizing, laughing and staring.
Some days my muses are rowdy, rough and tough.
Can you give me a second to go to the bathroom? I beg.
When I come back in a few seconds, there is no hope.
Hilarious joke! Says my persnickety muse name of Peg.
Why do we waste time trying to give ideas to this little dope?
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