The sky is white,
The air is wet,
Freesias quiver.
Mechanical sounds on all sides,
Come up the valleys and shallows,
Drowning chirps and happy notes
Thrown in the air like streamers.
The pepper tree catches a breeze and waves,
Some newborn leaves do the same.
Snapdragons pine for attention,
Pansies for some afterthoughts.
My muse needs affection
But moves aside before I touch her.
Cryptic and aching she walks away.
My numb digits are useless.
She looks over her shoulder,
As our distance grows,
Wipes a tear and whispers
What I cannot bear.
“The sea is full of mermaids
Who never come ashore
but will sing in your ear
the lies you want to keep.
Find another fool, Poet!
You have trampled my soul
And my heart is closed.
I am Erato, not errata…
Remember this when words fail you!”
I watch as she fades
into the blurry shades
Of passionflower, beyond the rosemary.
Tongue-tied, orphaned anew, I gasp.
Crisscrossing thoughts scurry and collide.
She can’t… Knees buckle.
What is a poet without words?
‘An empty thing’ answers a seashell.
‘Trim the dead blooms,
Weed out the sterile, till your soul,
and exhale’ says the faded blossom.
‘Let your ghosts slip away’
Urges the cycas palm from his abundance.
‘Face your hell!’ laughs the demon dog,
‘Erato rests in ellipses, subtexts,
And confused clauses, but she will stand
Through your fear holding the light.’
Air, I want air, plenty of air
In the walled city of my heart.
I want to mosey through cobbled streets,
And watch the sea twinkle when Erato smiles,
I want to ride thermals with silent gulls,
Writing songs with wing tips and feathers
For spellbound angels caught dreaming.
Bold and grey eucalyptus smoke
signs with nimble fingers.
In the distance I hear Erato sigh
“Your truth… It’s the only way.”
unbuttoned or undone 
Wow, Amazing… you have such a gift!
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You do the same with dyes and anything your hands create girl !
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Jings, Em, this is Dylanesque in its flowing poetic magic interlaced with bitter longing and rejection.
Another tour de force, quite magnificent, but drenched in pain.
I am in awe.
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Thank you, I think… I am ill at ease in the company of giants.
Poets have always courted the muse and then not listen to what she says as distractions are many.Sometimes she’s not saying what the poet wants to hear.
A scorned muse is fierce and fearsome though.
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Oh, she is a tough customer, your Muse!
No American New Age platitudes for her…
Although, perhaps she would enjoy an Artist’s Date or two?
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My muse is not patient but yes, she does enjoy a good dose of play and giggles.
Artist’s Date is always a fun thing.
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Frustration. Like a mosquito that can smell its mate on the other side of the window screen.
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So it is, so it is. 🙂
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Dear Emmy,
Ah the elusive muse. Beautifully penned.
Shalom,
Rochelle
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Thank you Rochelle, Your compliments are much appreciated..
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I feel the sting of being discarded by my muse at the moment. I’ve ventured out on my own and floundered around. I’ll simply have to apologize and wait for reconciliation to smooth the rough edges. Beautifully written, Em. I felt it, even believed I lived it.
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