I don't choose the muse
the muse chooses me
and when she appears
between my ears
I adopt the writer's role
and follow her
down the rabbit hole
never knowing
what I may find
is on my mind
but in time if I'm content
when penning punny poetry
with what passes for a poem
then it's good enough for me
With apologies to Lewis Carroll (1832 – 1898)
Anna found herself writing this to Marcus for a reply.
Dearest Marcus Sire
I find myself penning this letter to you.
I know why.
From ever since I can remember looking back,
it wasn’t a happy childhood,
Verbal, physical and mental abuse.
It wasn’t a one off it was consistent.
It wasn’t just one person was it; it was the whole family.
I don’t know how I survived that abuse.
Yet I will never forgive them.
They used me as a servant.
Closing all doors for me.
I’ll bide my time I used to think.
No one would believe the damage they did to me.
Now that I left them, they still try to follow me and I ignore them.
I pretend that I care.
Them with your problems of the world doing it to them.
They thought no one will spread the word of what they were.
Mum and dad and family.
Now I spend my time laughing at you.
Wouldn’t help you if you were in deepest hell.
Today I Find joy in the smallest things.
There’s hope, yes there is.
Waiting for your reply.
**Some Tongue Fun
(Writtem for Peter Piper)
To pen a poem a day
May scare some muses away,
so
Pam’s poems purr past peaceful people
and
Master Milo’s mollifymany muses.
My life was a lie, until I met you.
You hold my soul, I hold your hands.
Must die in arms, looking at you,
Till the last drop, dreaming of you.
Cover-up me close, but don't cry!
It's not your loss, time I am losing you.
Only few moments, more to make love,
Flowers, clouds, mountains, seas ,skies,
Stars, moon, sun, and my love for you.
It would be a curse, a Life without you.
And a happy phase, creating moments.
if Guernica were a poem ~ if I could write it
short and sweet, upbeat
relating nature’s wonder ~
freeing beautiful
Why do I write?
To make an ocean of words,
A river of sentences?
And adventurous sea?
Its for you to read
My dance with words,
A play of sentences,
A road to my self,
Maybe from structure or rhyme,
I can find,
Spreading ink of what you like,
My make of a story,
Which is to show you a way,
Of my own self,
What I will make you feel,
Glad to read what I write,
You may like it,
But it can't be entirely true can it?
That's for you to decide
As often as I pen my thoughts
from head to hand
to what is wrought
and arrive surprised
at words once sought, fortuitously
stained glass ideas appear
like falling manna,
between these ears,
doing whatever it is
thoughts do best…
letter by letter,
each welcomed guest.
And often as I pen to please
ideas that stir like winter leaves,
urging, surging like the sea
in hidden forces like gravity
and starry peaks I crawl to climb,
towards moving targets in my mind,
like eagle wings that lift and soar…
penning down thoughts
is a mind bending,
never ending,
beauty lending,
walk along the shore.
I write, change and scrub
clear the slate again, and then~
a poppy has bloomed
Written: February 27, 2023
Strand Premier No 1192 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Before penning, I see
myself with engine running...
foot tensed – ready to pounce
on the accelerator, at the fall
of the muse's flag; for a poem
really writes itself – a hand behind
the hand; the empty necessary
before each manic-gush – the art
of poetry, more a preparation
than a study; recommending
only the formless...as man
written by a God
of infinite Works --
Duane Bryers drew up the Hilda cartoons in the fifties
This is one, and she is truly one of the nifties.
You can tell she is a full size woman, comfortable in her skin.
She is an assertive gal in each cartoon she is in.
I have seen so many, and they are each rather fine.
Hilda is something, and she has a notorious mind.
She is happy to be full size, which is rare after Twiggy.
She is self-assured in each photo, not a big wiggy.
I really appreciate the pen of Duane Bryers now.
For Hilda is something; a big gal’s current “wow!”
I have looked up his work and I love it more every day.
Each one of his cartoons is a study in play.
The deep breath is taken
As the quote is written.
I'm stitching the feelings, the imaginations
by the letters of hope
And stitching the loneliness, the realities
by the bin of rejected envelop
The autumnal leaf falling down
and touching the ripple's womb
The magpie sucking
the nectar of kidney bean's flowers
Since last year, November 17, 2019
I'm in the panicked earth
Doomsday comes every moment
To the Chinese Cov-19 infected soul
Failure touching me every final staircase crossing
Success is now a miracle for my life although sunlight rising
Nowadays, winter sunset depicting the tomb in my marching
Endless the puzzling end pricking my entrepreneur's ink
May be an immature death of a pen very soon
Shattered life will be lost in some brutal loan
-01.12.2020 Chattogram
D-o
I-nk
M-arvelous
P-oem
O-n
L-ife
P-enning
A-crostic
D-esign
I-n
L-ovely
L-ine's
A-wesomeness
Topic: Birthday of Dimpol Padilla (November 9)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Metaphors and similes exude when scripting poetic verse.
Across pale parchment, the poet's pen continues to traverse.
Ink courses like life blood, rushing through his eddied veins
as he ignores cramped fingers while writing echoing refrains.
Each stanza arranged by sequence in the creation of a story.
Sometimes his mysterious muse dances wildly with allegory.
He reins her in when he is focused but totally oblivious of time.
With vivid imagination, he sits penning in consummate rhyme.
Thoughts drift like flurries of snowflakes; his passion ignites
as each completed verse lifts his wizardry to greater heights.
In epic form he wanders within a level of verbose amplitude,
composing lyrical sonnets when creating a romantic interlude.
He indites with skill and talent of an accomplished musician,
striving to compose a magnum opus, a worthy composition.
If by chance his poetry is interpreted with eyes of admiration
he'll credit his gypsy muse for offering amorous inspiration.
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