This is nine separate poems comprising one poem, each and all on the theme of the muse mercilessly striking in the middle of the night with irrepressible inspiration from God knows where.
God bid me
Higher than I
Was willing to go
Only to in
Form me
Of whys infirm a meant
That I am
All ready
Hear
He slept
Into conversation
With that God of dreams
Where I’s are not necessary
Only more acute
And in their wake
Brake loose
Countless dawns
Apprehending
I am
A kept man
In my place
Beyond my own
Yet as if
More than
A game
Playing only
For keeps
In the mettle of the night
God has a Lot to say
In that language of silence
A partner
Worth more than
One’s salt
Never looking back
In a God so forward
He said “YES”
To harvest time
In the land of nod
Where more dreams are forgotten
Than anyone could ever “no”
Those fated few under
A night’s protection
The muse strikes
Beyond mirror daze
In the we ours of the night
Where there is know work
And never clothing for busyness
My hand rights
And awe that is mine
Mirrorly follows
Giving
One
A pause
Word
Without sound
Of won hand
Clapping
Amid night rambler
Beyond what is still
Drunk in slurs
Of lucid dreams
Never to be penned
And in mourning will
Be for gotten
The wrest of the night
Is yours
The muse supined
And you knead not worry
I will take care
Of hour many
Fine appointments
I wrote these nine poems one night over the course of a bout two hours. The singular theme of a poet’s helpless relationship with a muse was not designed by me but a mirror reflection of this relationship. My futile resistance was to know a veil, and pun in hand, I consider this my formal certification as gloriously disabled. With the sole of a poet, flat on my back, I have long a go matriculated to the knead to get up and answer the muses booty call. It is simply the write thing too due! Sow, a light bulb goes on, and as pen is in hand, what comes is worthy of the papers. A lass, what may be fodder to some is a parent only too me in sharing presence of what is awe to gather hours. May you find yourself a basket-case of poetry like a sickness and a cure to gather.
