Who or what is your muse?

Albedo of Zero said:

Where do the whispers come from?

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from the Spirit of Christmas yet to come? Or not.


pinpoint of brilliance sparks
in the darkest recess of mind
glows to life with imagery
flames 'literarily'
through synaptic paths
takes residence in the aural canal
and whispers
to subservient fingers

Occasionally creativity spits the bridle,
to run unfettered.
As creation intended.
Through the greener grass.
Before being re saddled.

(deleted)

A word brings a thought, brings a beckoning.
A sound lets a memory play with time.
A sight, which is most splendid
lures the focused mind astray.
Drifting with the summer rain,
the autumn leaf, the wind of spring,
the frozen flake remains, always within.
Without expression I would drown,
my hard won crown, would melt away.
When I close away the world outside,
the one within begins to rhyme.

she is dead now,
her hair a ghost whisper
on a lingering river
and her face,
slightly below the wind-fluttered surface,
no longer looks into mine.
she has found a brighter light,
a star of David,
bent back and speckled
with time's manic whispers.
her eyes glimmer now,
all-knowing,
so far away
from the boy she knew
and daisies,
but still a light,
her face in shimmer
tells me in little micro-words
what to write and how.
she is smoke in the bonfire,
a twisted recollection of life
unlived. her bones, though brittle,
play softly in the wind of life,
teeter on the edge of remembering.
a sigh escapes me as i recall
her flesh with breath still simmering,
but gone--she still unfolds
around me. she, the goddess darkly,
can never be truly gone.
she is dead now,
a ghost mid-whisper.

this is my muse,
here,
where a single word
or turn of phrase
pricks memory...
inspires

your words in my mouth
taste sweet, and
when i spit them
on the page
they leave honeyed trails
of poetry

I stand with you,
Golden Gate Bridge
at our feet.
Pale sky low,
cloudy perspective
on the crooked city

swathed in gray
it is ours today.
We breath the same fog-air
that intermingled, vital
in Kerouac’s smoke-laced lungs.

We could dive down,
gritty, into alleyways
but I prefer to soar

----Eternity is not hyperbole,
----it wasn’t for Jack or Ginsberg -
----because I know to write
----in recollection and amazement.

creation on hilltops.

If I have an ounce of genius,
it’s you who sparked it in me.
You, my Neal Cassady.

Wind as Muse


it sweeps across my face...
angry claws of hidden lust,
stroking ego and wanderlust
with each exotic twist
of dust.
it calls me from a darkened field,
a shiver of panic
in wheat uncut.
I'll lay down and spy
the frozen sky above,
listen as her quick bitchy fingers
caress the beaten stalks
to silk.
that edge she rides,
the cumbered wind,
entices me to words.
if a sight unseen
can throb the world
with twitchy manic pulse,
then I, a simple soul,
can scratch the wind
with littered prose.

(This is not new, but is on-topic and such. Hope that is OK!)

Muse! Crack my brain-box apart
with a crowbar; siphon the poetry in.
Floored or on tiptoe I know how to go,
but I just seem to go back. I've been
seeding the highway with caltrops behind me
to keep my slow feet on your path.
With churned guts and burnt fingertips, oh, remind me
to pull my head out of my ass.

I thought forever
he was the dagger
and the muse, who
stabbed my pincushion heart

but every leaf's a needle,
every dawn a nail,
that pierces me
through, completely

bleeds me weightless
freed of words
light and absolved
of sorrow

i try to coincide

is there another me
lurking midst my being

over a shoulder
behind an eye
tingling in my fingertips?

the hair stands
an eyelash flutters,

neurons play chase
tagging thoughts
that come along,

tumbling about each other

chasing the muse

as invisible as music,
or a lover’s breath
across the skin;
these words—
transient, temporal—
flash against darkness


like fireflies on
a summer night.

Shade on the Muse

So naturally, strong winds, waves and lightning
strikes among the elements sway the mood,

stir the juice, brew literal
recipes of poetic madness; whether or not
the weather's a muse's an issue beyond

this poem's who-hue sense. Even if the whole
herd heard it truly blue and in thunder-clapped
certainty (there's no certainty) there'd still be

shade thrown (violet-lavender doubt) about
muses in a manner most uninspiring and the rantings,
the writhing wretches clacking keyboards does/not
disprove such a climate of disbelief, may lightning strike
my myth-making ass.