All Hallows’ Eve,
and my muse has gone astray.
When last seen, a bluebird,
most likely bat today.
I’ve written and deleted
a tome or two of late;
nothing’s any good —
I’ve just an addled pate.
Where are those perfect words
that say just what I mean?
Have they been scared away
by this looming Halloween?
I think it’s much more likely
my muse is somewhere stuck
among the fangs and broomsticks
of politics run amuck.
Thanks to photographer D.J. Berg,
and a salute to her complimentary Halloween bar.
In a stroke of good luck,
my camera in hand,
a great photo op
came upon me unplanned.
“You’re a beauty indeed!”
I gushingly said.
“Oh, pshaw,” she replied,
and of course turned her head.
Such taunting reveals
the ignoble ruse:
you’ve morphed once again,
my intractable muse!
My muse! Impertinent,
wayward thing!
Taunting me
on mighty wing!
Graceful she,
in bluest height,
indifferent
as I try to write.
I watch her float,
from earth unbound,
while I, like stone,
am stuck to ground.
In those clouds
vocabulary,
eloquence
extraordinary.
She could bring it
to cloddish me,
but prefers to soar
metaphorically.
This, dear reader, is a photo of my muse, morphed once again into something elusive. The size of a turkey, in a tree full of air, she either stupidly thinks she is hiding or sadistically revels in my awareness of her.
That is, therefore, where I am: in a tree full of air. No words. Nothing to say. I’ve been stuck, wordless, for over a week. I’ve tried many times, here, there, and everywhere, to summon a thought, a word. My muse is out there peering at me through barren twigs, with a look that says “What are you going to do about it?” She knows I can’t fly so I can’t get to her to turn her upside-down and shake some words out of her.
Behind those bright black eyes swirl endless sparkling metaphors, marching feet of iambic pentameter, sentences woven of wordsilk like brilliant tapestry. And my rotten muse is keeping all that to herself.
Whose woods these are
springs right to mind
as writer I admit
I find
I’m compelled to sigh
my muse is smitten
by words I wish
that I had written.
Thanks more to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Prickled by grass
empty of thought
a tabula rasa
vacant lot
the supine poet
seeker and sought
yearning skyward
fancies naught
passive, inert
with wordlessness fraught,
the muse in the clouds
acedia besot.
This is the writer me
in aspect toothachy
I feel all hewn and flat
where are my muses at?
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Gardeners speak in many tongues
just because they got ’em
but which imbues
poetic muse
“Star of Bethlehem”
or
“Ornithogalum umbellatum”?
Middle C
used to be
the first
forever imbedded
eared, eyed, and headed
for better or for worst.
The alpha note
small-finger-smote
awaking addiction
family friction
in eventual Czernian bloat.
Oh, the hours misspent
a perpetual Lent
da capo ad nauseam
no break or pauseam
my youth distorted and bent.
Why wasn’t I Rubenstein?
Why only me?
What sadistic muse
designed this ruse
this siren-song’d middle C?
Two years ago I wrote “Clock” as my tribute to August, the month which turns the garden. August turns me too, and with contented anticipation of the cocoon ahead.
This year I decided to join a community of bloggers on a project called “August Break,” created by Susannah Conway. They agree to post a picture a day as a break from writing. Ha, say I. We’re writers: show us a picture and stand back because we WILL write. A picture is a green light every time. Maybe we are just writing in our heads, but we’re writing. We can’t help it; we’re weak that way.
Anyway, I tried to sign up, but the page froze. I took that as a sign from my muse. Not for me, this community of August Breakers.
So I decided to become a Community of One. I will tell the story of my August, one picture at a time, and try to let the pictures speak for themselves.
My pictures will be my countdown, this year’s clock, gently tick-tocking August away into its inevitable September.
Hummingbird with attitude
