Tag Archives: muse

In wandering and being inspired

I jump over waves in the wind, now thinned-
causing a splash on descent, and the water imbues.
I walk in circles in some well-trodden shoes,
soles that are worn to the heel.
And the crestfallen face of my mind
urged in the gentle spell of her lines-
the brushstrokes of her pastel flowing gown
compel me to write something down.
I frolic amidst the swell and soak in
the flow of her form that rescinds
the aches in my well-trodden soul.
I stand embracing the image and whole.

 

Crux

As hills become mountains and the lakes lead to streams,
then writing this poem is more like a scheme
to capture them both-though it seems in excess-
The climb and the ascent to narrowed obsess.
Shunning all reason of what comes to rest
on cliffs or near jetties in scenes I know best.
A beauty there waiting in sunlit repose,
her eyes slightly dimmed,as she dreams – I suppose.
And there at each waypost she lingers ahead
culling the scenery I’ve conquered and bred.
And where I go next is of no end, this I know.
She’ll be in the heights or the river below.

A part of you

Emerging in the sleeping dew
with softened morning light,
are you among the sable fringe
casting forth your bright?

Walking on the air of day
with wisps of gleaming kismet,
are you sprite or angel summoned
without claim to coquette?

I comfort your implied embrace,
the smile you offer as you roam,
the auric presence you have shared
lives inside this poem.

 

contained

she brought me words in ceramic
all polished and glistening,
language sauced and disheveled
and piled in this vessel.

she sent me themes in a crate
stacked edge upon edge,
corner and treatise
with motives alleged.

she carried her thoughts in a barrel
swirled and unmixable,
leaving me pondering
the whole thing was fictional.

when all that I managed was off-beat or bland
and all that I want, her true heart in hand.

Cups

I seek a magnum for my words
to hold and season, spoon and stir
a cup to ferment, provocate
to frenzy – undeterred.

Then sometimes I just need a plot
to plant and tend, to give a shot
No rubs and snags, organic-like
a garden – not a lot.

Yet, in this morning comes a zone
where dreams are sparse and I’m alone.
My words seem languished – decomposed
to less than I condone.

I place them in a tumbler, red
with pangs and fancy, joy and dread
then agitate to swirl and sway
these aches- the ones unread.

I seek a chalice clear, a sprite
to hold my poetry in sight
to mesmerize and -yes- atone
for tarnished silver blight.

A Hand to Bukowski

I was dreaming about smoky rooms
and back stairwells, when
the ghost of Charles Bukowski
woke me up at 2:15 AM
and said,
“Help me write this poem.”

I rolled over and reached out in disbelief,
and I swear, I could have touched him,
but he turned
and left the room.

I swung my legs out of bed
and followed him to the kitchen.table.
He was drinking a cup of coffee
and mumbling to himself, doodling
on a napkin.

“I never wrote a poem about polar bears.”

Why does it have to be polar bears? I asked.

He wrote down that sentence.

What do you know about polar bears? I asked.

“Nothing,” he said and continued
to scribble and recite,

“Damned polar bears in zoos
have it good.
Their keepers throw them fish.
Bears eat.
Bears sleep.
Bears screw.
Nobody throws Chinaski a fish,
And they gawk at me all day.”

I left him at my kitchen table
with his head in his hands,
smoking a cigarette,
and mumbling to himself.

I faded off to sleep,
and dreamed of polar bears.

Bukowski is a lousy muse.