19 11 2012



(I’m still sitting here… writing of the finer things.)

The velvet robes
The gossamer wings
Ideals of ancients
(of prophets and fools)
that walk upon water,
then drown…
in their own…
shallow pools…

Yet sometimes – unbidden – another muse beckons. 

And sometimes,
I listen…
I ought to…
I reckon

This terrible beauty just spills to the page…
{The spell of a muse?!?}
(By the pen of no sage.)
The tragedy…
(and splendor)
of what i believe
(not what I am – but what i conceive),
of the starkness and ire,
(so often my life)
The hate and the crying,
the pain…
and the strife…

– or they’re given –
(We’re so often bereft of a choice – or it’s shriven)
They bring solace to beggars, and reason(s) to kings…
They bring folly and wisdom.
– such powerful things –
There is breathtaking wellness,
in deep dark despair.
Such kindness in sorrow
– inherently there.
The hopelessness of hate and the passion of anger…
(HELL! i can’t rhyme that!!!)
but this muse –
doesn’t waiver…
This muse seldom leaves,
till it screams from the page!
It is so full of longing…
of wanting…
of rage.

It bids me to speak of the things which are slighted,
the things that just

get a Knight…

duly knighted.

————-(Sorry, for that one, great muse – you constantly test my metal…)———

It begs that these things have a place in my heart,
that my spirit gives credence…
welcomes their art.

So that what i conceive, be it humble or bold,
is just what I am, if My truth is here told…

On This Page,
where I write,
it’s forever embossed.
It can never be sullied,
or vanquished,
or lost.
Though it may be praised,
or pitied…
The muse may now rest,
if it got…
what it wanted .

…but still,

the muse beckons,

and says

one more thing…

I love…
when we
and you dance …
while I Sing




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