For this weeks Tuesday Tryouts, Margo asked for a poem about our muse. More specifically, I think she prompted us to ‘describe’ this … creature. Unfortunately, mine is a fickle minx who refuses to maintain appearances, if she submits to being seen at all.
There are still times when I find her
languishing by the liquor cabinet,
convinced words of higher meaning
are to be found in an emptied glass.
More often she dances in shadow,
a diaphanous distraction who plays
at the edges of consciousness, demanding
attention, refusing a point of focus.
Occasionally, when in a generous mood,
she meets me face to face, shares every
breath, flows as blood in the pen
to become ink on a page.
In those times, all others are forgiven.
He waits for her to recover,
hoping she will.
The body is damaged,
but healed, the spirit
lags behind, refusing
to accept a new reality.
She ignores his attentions.
There is no animosity,
He has become as useless
to her as dandelions
to the yard, or sun
to the lighthouse.
for the image prompt at The Mag
It was a cheery enough image,
but not where it led me.
It is a difficult decision,
choosing between the complex
flavors of the house noodles
and the fire of the spicy chicken.
She was the first — a rare beauty
in an east Texas town —
with burring desire and a rebellious
nature. She searched for something
the boys she was surrounded
by could not provide and tired
of me quicker than the fill
of the lo mien subsides, or the sting
of sauce on the tongue dies.
Lately, I order the noodles more,
preferring to savor the layers
of life imbued in each bite.
Occasionally though, there is an
appeal to the heat, no matter
how quickly it fades.
The Saturday post at dVerse asked for
an account of an ‘Asian” experience
It is a nebulous vision,
a scene viewed through an opaque window,
bleak faces with blazing torches
who hover at the edges of perception,
marching into the night in search
of one to persecute, one to save,
one to be a savior.
Her touch is a cut, leaving wounds
where once there was healing,
calculation and timing where once
there was love, yet, she takes
my breath with her when she leaves,
a slab on my chest to crush out life
as I am buried beneath her burden.
Her ghosts follow her into the night,
bleak faces with blazing torches.
It is a nebulous vision.
for the Sunday Whirl
There is little movement in the early hours,
lifeblood flows slow like a trail of tree sap
on a northern pine. Coffee is the cure
for the morning which follows the restless night.
Midday brings a false energy, fueled by caffeine, sugar
and the rush of adrenaline fed ideas. The impossible
is contemplated, and often attempted, the pace furious,
the goal unclear but ahead. The tea is sweet and iced.
Sometime later, when the afternoon rays are brightest,
a sense of doubt steals momentum, decisions are
second guessed as the day is reviewed. Changes of
direction and a more traditional tea are considered.
Dusk and the dark which follows throw shadows
on a already murky path, the culmination of choices
leading to a congratulatory beer, celebratory champagne,
or dejection poured out with whiskey on the rocks.
for her Tuesday prompt Margo Roby asks us to ‘metaphor our poems’. She said nothing about using the world’s longest title.
He keeps the ancient vow,
a binding covenant with the sun.
He dances before the cave mouth –
broken symbols cradled in the crook
of one arm, a perpetual fist
on the other — circling the fire,
sending chants into space
with the rising smoke,
a constant drone of syllables
in a language unknown
to the listeners.
A tourist attraction shaman king,
descendant of proud warriors
for the Sunday Whirl
We now consider
no fruit forbidden,
no knowledge sacred,
no secret worthy
of remaining hidden.
There is low hanging fruit,
accessible to all,
within easy reach,
but it is our glory,
and our downfall,
to always search
for that just beyond
for The Mag image prompt