Thread: July challenge, "Your Muse"

Gumby, our winner from the 'lessons' challenge has chosen the subject for this month as

"Your Muse"

Please post your entries below, check the 'stickies' at the top of the page if you are uncertain of the rules, but please remember no editing after you have posted.

Today is the 8th July, you have two weeks, I shall close this thread on the 22nd, I look forward to reading your entries, good luck, Olly.

Your Seasons

Looking at you, the joy in your eyes, your dimples
___when you smile
_______remind me of summer.

_When you cry, your tears like autumn
____drift me into darkness

______and winter
_________where I wait for spring;

___wait for you to blossom
again.

Why Not Write A Happy Poem?

Writing dark

a friend asked me
why I don't write
happier poems.

Knee jerking over
the question and caffeine,
the best I could offer
was a half-assed soliloquy
I didn't find convincing.

"I only write what comes...
Otherwise it's crap."

Leaving her to do the math,
she, being a traitor, asked:

"Why don't you write a poem for me?"

A Trap! Adrenaline
kicked my knee,
voice betraying
nervously:

"It's not a faucet baby,
sometime, eventually...
I'd like to but there
are no guarantees."

Indeed,
after the fact,
unexpectedly

Happiness was
never a guarantee
you could expect.

I added:

"Writing can be lark
but my muse can't
share the laugh."

She laughed
and threw a wrench
into my craft.

My Muse


During
the afternoon storm

when rain is bacon
simmering and crackling on the stove,

when clouds age old
and mumble deep, snapping whispers

from somewhere far away,

when the sky is lit
for a flash before it fades –

a cold room, a place to sit,
blankets to trap the heat and listen.

Melpomene


She's slipped her chain, picked the lock
crept past the guards again.
There will be no sleep tonight-
a mad man's muse is on the loose.

She lurks in the corners, or sits by my bed
rocking to and fro.
Pillows can't smother the maniac's mutters,
believe me, I would know.

Pleading falls on deaf ears,
she gives no peace or quarter
and what's to be begged from such as she,
when you're this asylum's porter?

Tomorrow's light of day
will see her chained once more.
By duties, errands, bills to be paid-
thank God for mind numbing chores.

Sojourn

Sojourn, to shelter from the winds that rage;
to rest and dream and feel a warm embrace
while flames draw pictures like some eerie dancing mage
within the hearth, and will not reveal his face.

The thunder roars a violent overture and dies,
to sound again as dark clouds hide the moon;
the lightning fires the dark night’s foaming skies,
to briefly drive the shadows from the room.

I see my inspiration for one moment,
and love fires glowing embers in her eyes.
Travelers through the gale look for the storm’s relent
as we watch the warfare raging in the skies.

Ars Poetica

Poets practice rhymes on lined paper
whisper words while in the shower
scatter thoughts on post-its to dark corners
where they lose themselves
under unwashed clothes, behind half-read books,
folded, crumpled, gone
to the writer's chopping block.

Poets gather, sometimes,
clutching soul scribbles in nervous pause-
-s while they wait
through the reciting of others' tries at the mic.
And while they wait
they quietly rehearse the lines they finally finalized last night
and then – oh wait,
the applause! Should I go now? Is someone else going up now? No?
I'm going to go up now? Yes!
And I'll read my words as if the audience is listening to them,
and if I get their attention enough, they might actually,
before they clap, and I sit back down.

Poets take their prided prize poems and package them
into collections, submit them to contests,
trying to make them make money, trying to make them rank high
trying to make themselves make-believe that they might make sense for someone.

Poets have made themselves the prophets of our time,
false prophets, blowing beauty into words
spinning fabulous tales, asking for belief.
Dying on paper, trying too hard, lying to get attention,
and begging others not to notice.
Because what good is a poem that is not true?
What good is a truth that is not beautiful?
And what good is beauty if no one reads?

Poets are the prophets of our time,
false prophets, competing to see
who can sound the most like they know
something
that no one else realized.

Poets, you prophets, who sing to the muse
of vanity and self-congratulation,
presuming listener interest,
your rehearsal time is over.

Someone else must come now to the mic.

I am the Crimson One
I am the drawer of blood
the bringer of death
the killer of life
the overpowering shadow to light
I have the power to destroy nations
To lay waste to millions
To control many a people
To make even the strongest and mightiest bow before me

Though I conquer with hand and sword, you conquer me with your mind
You are not my enemy, yet you subdue me and make me powerless before you
Even from the faintest catch of my eye, you subject me to your understanding
I bow before you and give me the words of wisdom, insight and intelligence

I dare not lay my hands on you
For the power you invoke within me is greater than my sword could muster
I dare not resent you
For the wisdom you invoke within me is greater than my boasting tongue
I dare not forget you
For the peace you invoke within me is the only I have known

You will be my greatest ally, though we do not fight for the same
You can control me, help me to stay my sword from blood
You will always be with me, for you are the calm to my lust for destruction

I break the peace, but you are my peacemaker

The Flow Magic

It once was YOU
And it once was ME
Did I say rich
Did you say right?
As we both stood
Wondering the skies
A silence came
Another went,
We looked in wait
We searched in rain.
There was a voice
That stood up right.
Just as we turned,
We saw it come
We saw it stand.
We clinched our hands
We closed our eyes
One minute pass or maybe two
Just as we breathed
Our silence met
We felt it close
We felt it near
And thus we went
In search and far
Reaching the highs
Further we climbed
Those were the moves
We both had made.

A Place of Dreams



Brightly coloured rows,
up to the tops of the hills;
when I was child I could look up,
to watch the plumes of smoke
from the chimneys merge
into dark clouds in the winter sky.
When I was a child.

Or I could gaze over the harbour wall
at all the different hues, rocking
in the waves of the marina;
while the wind blew
and the rain beat wet tattoos.
I’d picture, in my mind’s eye,
all the places where those boats had been.

In times of doubt or grief,
I’d stand there on the quay
to feel the spray upon my face,
while I looked for answers
where the sea and sky were married.
Whether zephyr or gale,
the wind always brought them to me.

No matter where I am,
my thoughts can always take me back
to my special place;
my place of memories, of comfort
and of dreams.

Deceased Muse


A muse
something of wonder
a pheonix for thought
creating stories in your mind


A muse
something different for me
remembrance of time past
saddening and painful


A muse
years of poetry written
stories with emotion overflowing
history brought to life


A muse
death of a parent
abuse from another
splatters of a heart broken


A muse
darkness over my head
pages of prose
strewn across the floor


A muse
one I will no longer allow
infiltrating every thought
time to let go


A muse
searching for a new reason
to write words of happiness
saying good bye
to my deceased muse

My Mose ( Do you like what I am now, inside out?)

Secrets flowing out
Sins becoming known
You've been authorized, murder me
Will you take me now?

Break my seams
Look inside if you dare
Figure the works, hold me down
Do you like what you found?

Love will you save me, or just betray me?
Spilling out my stuffing out on the ground
Does it make you feel better now that I’m bleeding in your hands?
Will you take me as I am now?

You know my secrets, moving in silence
You seem like someone else, I don’t know

"That's all folks", enough of your looney tunes. No further entries to the challenge please, I am off to set up the poll.