Muse

The muses are ghosts, and sometimes they come uninvited. ~ Stephen King

I heard a whisper soft as stone

that echoed like a belfry bell

whose earthy sound and dulcet tone

cast me under its dreamy spell.

I stood beneath its haunting light,

felt the pull of its burning strings,

and knew there’d be no sleep that night

on the back of her airy wings.

 

I posed with pen upon the page,

waited for words that would not write

and set them free of gilded cage

as birds aboard their maiden flight.

Whispers echoed in evergreen.

Stars encircled a sleepy moon.

The muse was sweet, of gentle mien,

and as prophetic as a rune.

 

This iridescent dialogue

captured starlight within a bowl

and cleared away the banks of fog

that mystified my tender soul.

The clouds parted across the sky.

Wisteria cones filled the air.

The matchstick of a lone firefly

turned into thousands, everywhere.

 

Pine trees stood in dark silhouette.

Katydids and peepers intoned.

A hot summer night’s tete-a-tete

was born and forever enthroned.

I watched the lamplight turn to dawn.

A white sheet breathed with ink in veins.

My muse cartwheeled across the lawn,

and her gift is all that remains.

 

One cannot ignore the dusts of time

nor the needle threaded with light,

the seeds that bloom in proper clime

nor the wings of mystical flight.

The weight of the world is a door,

an exit that none can refuse.

Look not once but again and more

with open eyes to see the muse.

Author's Note

Reviews

[Lorry]

Beautifully captured Linda. All I can think to say of this is...
1- please tell her next time you hear from her (muse) to come and play with me again and I'm sorry I was too busy to listen last time she visited and it won't happen again.. Double promise pinky swear.. And...
2- please send me read requests, as for some reason, my news feed randomly chooses not to show some writes and I've missed oodles of yours. I really don't mind RR's from friends and it also happens to be a great way of keeping track and will triple promise with bells on to work my way through them all.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to get my pen and journal to see if I can tease her into saying hello. 😊

[Betty Hermelee]

This is so amazing and beautiful to read....I believe your muse saved you and freed you to mark your thoughts and words once again on paper...she brought you out of the dark to see the light, which then inspired you to be free..."A white sheet breathes with ink in veins"....a stunning line and important i believe to this incredible piece.
Best, B

[Neville]

Only a fool and a blind one at that would stumble upon this page and dare leave without leaving something of themselves behind .. indeed, there is nothing not to like about it, but so very much to love .. please note, having now visited your ink, I hope to view more of it and have finally accepted your friend request .. Neville

[John the Baptist]

The imagery in this one is so numerous and vivid that I will not attempt to interpret all of it. Suffice it to say that we are given here a rich retelling of the muse's visit. The speaker is having trouble with "words that will not write," a predicament all writers have known. Then the muse, "of sweet, gentle mien," speaks, and clears away "the banks of fog," igniting a storm of creativity that lasts through the night. God, it's great when something like this happens. I just wish it was programmable.

[FGFRANKLIN]

This was just fantastic and I thoroughly enjoyed the entirety. I love the descriptions of how the muse leaves the poet. Sprinkling her fairy dust like Tinkerbell and flittering away would have sufficed but this one cuts cartwheels across the lawn! I love it. And this illustration is awesome. It's like the subject telling the artist one tear is enough suffering expressed and exposed. Delightful.

[Weeping willow]

Beautifully expressed are the words of this write, as the muse is flighty and speaks only in silent tones. Leaving our minds to write words down before they disappear. Nicely done

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Sometimes the muse comes so alive it takes over completely...and we become another person who writes.
This reminds me of "the Dark Half" by King.
When the writer puts a pen name to rest and it does not want to be and comes alive killing
all who have to do with that move.
great description...of course. But then, no surprise, considering you are the author here.

[willweb]

This poem was so much fun to read this morning. It wore a smile and was as playful as a kitten with a ball of string. I particularly like the lines; " My muse cartwheeled across the lawn, and her gift is all that remains."
Indeed, her gift is all that remains. I couldn't have said that better myself. : )