Snowcoveredmuse1 Poetry (6)

Poet to Poet Returns.....

Poet,
It was a great thrill
to read you today.

It's an indescribable
delight & comfort
to be in this bewildering relationship with you.

~

You are there
to give me courage
to beckon me
to the world of the living.

You are there to invite me to the
most breathtaking voyage,
there to prevent me from
slumbering in the wasteland of the mind.

Yes

You sustain my efforts to
disentangle myself
from the tentacles of dementia.


What are we but a washed out blueprint
attesting to the failure of the great architect's attempt?

(were there ever one
in establishing his great scheme)

Not human yet-
already earthlings no more.

Could the roots of our confusion stem
from our difficulty of finding a compass
to steer us safely through
between the poles of madness & grief,
to fix us upon the meridian
of unrehersable awakening?

If the real self is the driver,
subliminal you would say
then the mirror upon which we travel
reflects the afterglow of our desire.

If we are the repositories of countless exiles
soul wrung out of soul,
the wayward crossings of countless currents
in some solar neighborhood,
we are free to imagine our shells
managing the destiny of angelic entities
or in fields invisible
fostering astral bodies.

The earth we have left behind
seems still empowered,
to withhold us in some bardo
for we have failed in recognizing
the final dissolution of light
as our point of no return.

How are we to keep pace
with the increase of disease
busy as we are to upkeep
the famish of our mutable hearts?

(pause)

It truly dazzles me to be
in this fare with you,
never has storm been so welcoming,
shipwreck so soothing.

In your breaker I restore my mast
dear Poet
reef or lifebelt
what matters
you have set your metaphors afloat
to tender my sinking a hold.

In the throbbing breach of your flesh
you have ushered my homecoming.

In the agony of your loins
I cradle your moan
you unleash the floods
of your quivering flame.

Upon your breaking waters
palaver of birds,
whispers of my pollen
pangs of consumed heaves.


Write soon, Poet

SAS

I fear if I run out of ink
my thoughts will cease to flow,
No longer free to roam around
where they desire to go.

Caught up in a stasis as my
mind begins to congeal,
Severed from my senses I find
I can no longer feel.

The proof of my existence is
my words upon the page,
Without this free expression I
feel my world is a cage.

How could I ever tell you what
my writing means to me,
Dear children born within my mind
and then I set them free.

I love my thought's many offspring
they're so dear to my heart,
I give them freedom to grow and
with my blessing depart.

I let them go to make their own
way in the world so wide,
My heart nearly bursts they are the
source of my greatest pride.

I fear if I run out of ink
my thoughts will cease to flow,
No longer free to roam around
where they desire to go.

Caught up in a stasis as my
mind begins to congeal,
Severed from my senses I find
I can no longer feel.

The proof of my existence is
my words upon the page,
Without this free expression I
feel my world is a cage.

How could I ever tell you what
my writing means to me,
Dear children born within my mind
and then I set them free.

I love my thought's many offspring
they're so dear to my heart,
I give them freedom to grow and
with my blessing depart.

I let them go to make their own
way in the world so wide,
My heart nearly bursts they are the
source of my greatest pride.

"The beginning of a novel is a time of
awful when you're dealing with a lot
of dead pieces and you have to wait and wait for
some sort of animation" ~Iris Murdoch

Poet,
The blank page
is terror.
The blank
screen is too.
How do I dare
to impose
my prejudices upon it?
~
How do I dare
to assume that
what I have to say matters to anyone--even me?
~

It's that mysterious
leap that distinguishes
the dreamer from the doer.
I myself always trick myself into starting.
"No one will ever read this," I say.
"Moreover, no one will understand it."
Sometimes I make as many
as a dozen starts.
Later I realize they
were all different ways of
sneaking up on the same material.

~

I was stalking my poem
from many different angles
--but I don't see that until
I am well and truly launched.


"The last thing we decide
about a poem is what to put first"
This has always been my experience.
If only I could relax and remember
that this game of hide
and seek with my poem
is the only way I know of refinding
the playfulness that making up requires.

(pause)


Candlelight
flickering
beautifully
this morning, dancing
on the walls
like thoughts
dancing
beautifully
inside
a poet's mind.

Yes, sweet poet, we must
let go. We must
take leave, pass on.

Words
are our way
of polishing
the rough stone surface
of existence.

Words
are our way
of pounding nails
into walls,
and mounting
our pictures
in the hallways.

~

Regardless
of our efforts regardless
of our thoughts, and our prayers, and our ideas existence
does
exactly
as it pleases.

and we are here
to please it.

Act only in ways
that will please existence.

Act only
in ways
that will move existence forward.



like tumblers
falls
behind the wall
of a safe,
our words
turn
the keys
to the puzzle the keys
that swing open
the doors the keys
that will keep
the image
safe,
and release it, too, into the winds of eternity where it belongs /
where we
eventually
will travel.

~

We
are the ones
who weren't intended
to be here

We
are the ones
who were intended
to be gone



We
are the ones
you see starving
at dawn.

We
are the ones
who are lonely, and alone.

We
are the ones
who drink coffee
at coffee shops
at the edge of the universe
while peering
at the abyss



Dance
with us
only
if you dare.

Close
your eyes
and help us seduce
the night

We are safe
in the city

We are safe
in ourselves

We are safe
in the workshop
of our talent

~

Aspire
to greatness
by doing
what must
be done
and leaving the rest
for the universe
to take care of.

~

I better close.

I will write again soon.

SAS

_____________________

The coffee has cooled in the cup upon the counter
so silent it rest since you last set it down

so silent
so damned silent

I did not know that in closing the door you
had packed the life that once was my home

so empty
so damned empty

Words and expressions once flowed with ease
pen upon the paper reveals naught
are there words to express this vacuous life

the poet dies
the damned poet dies

Thunder Crashing

she opens her eyes, slowly...
he is still there,
fine, proud, erect.

outside, thunder crashes in the sky,
she can feel it's calling,
& is not afraid to reach out and take his hand
guiding him to soft corners laying abundance
& drenched in satin sheets.

the storm swiftly picks up
he continues to make her tremble.
she feels it's intensity as his body strives for position,
she brushes his face telling him it's all right,
while arching her enthusiasm,
making it easier for him to meet such demands of passion.

he knows and loves her so well,
techniques, pleasure, and the fire that dwells in
his heart for her.

all eyes are on the shadows writhing on the wall
such beautiful, exciting silhouettes.

more thunder
her nails pierce his flesh as she whimpers
and a thousand sighs were finally set free.

SAS