By the Morning

When the sky strikes clouded hour

it should be sleep which you devour–

ancient rites

to lay your sights

upon the treasures of your birth;

shaded, still, but gold by mirth

a notion-thought, a nation-state

set upon the starry plate

lips consume by golden ticks

of time, of hearts, of callous pricks

(of soul, you dirty mind)

that in their feasting bind

further dawn, further hope

and leave the starving poets to elope

with museless musings

by economic typings–

which is to say, by morning I am weeping

for all the pains that you’re still keeping.

One Winter Morning

She woke before me,

straining her brush through aurora strands,

smiling at the pale gown

reflected in the blue-green mirror.

 

When she stretches,

pink melon breasts exposed at the nipple

collect prism dew, drowning

in the throb of rehydrated crystal needles.

 

The vapors of her perfume are scentless,

senselessly caressing the rivers of her eyes

like butterfly winds—fluttering out

from east to west; an oriental song.

 

But the lantern burns—

by night she is radiantly departed:

she lays her head in my lap

and the mascara runs in shadows down my leg.

*Out of season by the title, I know, but I hope you’ve all enjoyed the cool touch of this one all the same…my contribution to what may well be the last, or one of the last One Shot Wednesdays at One Stop Poetry. It has been an honor and a pleasure, everyone. I look forward to visiting you all outside of the linkies though, and to continue basking in your poetry as time rolls on.

Bloom and Wilt

Enfold in me

your light, your life–

sweet summer child

turn not your color from my heart,

the scent of pine trees,

sculpted in the dawning,

where all of nature is the swell at your sweet breast,

the gathered breaths cultivating

convalesced coercion of my soul.

Breath to breath, I seek your notes,

the tantalized texture of your smile

writhes still in me, in places

only faith should know.

You drink me, though you do not know

the taste of my desire–

the character in the caricature–

myself, I, wilting in that shade,

in those dark places where your lips and light

shall never know, nor ever sing.

Death of a Muse

Tender touches

twilight now

when you would walk through moon beams

silver youth, in my mind,

your long-tossed hair that fleeting glimpse

unworthy hands would never know.

A dream-wrought kiss

for all sensation’s cheer—

a note to set the pen to dance

beneath your light.

What is your name?

Reality, but a longing and a life

no bearing on the yearning—

the dreamer’s supple realm.

A thousand ships would sail for you,

in mind, while your eyes turned—

it wasn’t till the flesh took my hand,

crowned in cruel identity

cast me out to sea

that all those ships were set to burning.

* My latest contribution to One Shot Poetry Wednesday. This piece was essentially the second part to the post I made yesterday, on muses and their very real, physical departure, in the form of people. Yesterday I gave other people’s thoughts on muses, but today I put forth my own thoughts on the muse’s withdrawal. For those with a physical embodiment to their own creative drive…

The Writer’s Muse

Gustave Moreau's, Hesiod and the Muse (1891)

This week, I’ve been dwelling a lot on the concept of the muse, particularly owing to the fact that a person I once took to be the physical embodiment of my own muse recently dropped out of my life  in any meaningful manner.

Necessities, in life, I suppose…but it does hurt to see such dramatic shifts in relations with others. To watch yourself drift entirely out of someone else’s life. Particularly when the creative in you recoils from the blow, in such horror…

This week’s quotes, thusly, are based on the concept of the muse, as shall my submission for One Shot Wednesday tomorrow. Enjoy.

“Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
~Edmund Waller

“O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
~William Shakespeare

“A muse can be a mirror: a reflection of the artist’s desires, anxieties, dreams and needs.
~Vince Aletti

An Idea, A Muse

I dub thee Goddess Moon,

Patron of the painter’s boon

Mistress of the writer’s swoon

The world could circumnavigate

This trait, you call thy state

But they would only desecrate—

That holy word, this blurred

In bitter flight, bird

I am certain they should call absurd

But here you are, a smile

Resting yet upon the winds of wile

Of your fertile guile

Merest notion

Of my dearest heart’s devotion—

This world is not yet ready for your motion.

My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! Once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well– they’re a skilled bunch of poets, looking to form a community and support one another.  Enjoy!