A Thousand Muses

crop woman and abstract illustrations on floor

~for the full moon love

There were a thousand Muses through the years —
Some were friends and others foes. Some were
lovers and past crushes and possible future flames.
Each vibration–reaction strumming a chord that said
Create, Capture, Hold an Image, a Moment — But
None of them sparked my heart like you, Beautiful Soul.

There were a thousand Muses through the years —
Some were real in essence and vision and others
a fanciful need, illusion, wish, desire, imprint.
Each color-shadow sparking a fire that said
Begat, Build, Frame the Idea, the Hour — But
None of them saturated my skin like you, Beautiful Soul.

There were a thousand Muses through the years —
Some were Birds of Paradise singing melodies and
some were Piranhas circling deep with hunger.
Each living-dying another brick in the journey road
traveling me through the cities, towns, fields – But
None of them flew me to the heights of your sky, Beautiful Soul.

There were a thousand Muses through the years —
But I need no more Muses to inspire or create, motivate
now that I have found my poetry in the light of your eyes
and the deep glowing fire of loves light in your Beautiful Soul.

 

 

~Photo by Retha Ferguson on Pexels.com

THIS is how my heart

heart shaped red neon signage

I walk the oceans edge
delight in the appearance
of birds landing beside me
to frolic-play
walk with me awhile —

Sacred gift of
this unspoken communion
pure bliss of being
free together —
and as they lift-float skyward
there is no edge
of absence-regret-loss
only joy residual from
the experience
of the knowing
in who they are.

THIS
is how my heart
desires to love you —
not with fear
or holding on
or with clinging
jealous hands —
but with unity-freedom
a oneness that remains true
even after your leaving.

 

~Photo by Designecologist on Pexels.com

A New Song

bare trees against sky during sunset

~for Mickey 12/2019

 

The old man tells me of his friend (and I am his friend)
as we drive home from dinner.  He falls to weeping
over the buddy he sang with in the church quartet
all those many years ago.

His friend died young, aged 48, and he stopped
singing then (at 72 he sings to me as we drive).
The pain of sad loss trembles from him, the words
and images fall into my lap for safe keeping — this
is a heart opening into hearing as I whisper the normal
“I’m sorry” and “I know it still hurts” because that is what
one does —

But I want say — “I am listening” and “I will put this
in a poem” Your heart — THIS big with love —
“I will save it forever for you in a poem.” But
I only whisper the normal solaces one gives,
watch his tears fall and listen as he shivers —
His frail voice singing a song about a Lighthouse
as I take his aged hand in mine
across the center console of the car.

There —
In the night drive home after dinner
in the shimmer and melody on air
and the spring of tears trembling down —

The ghost of his friend rides with us
on through the dark night
as hands both living and dead
reach out and touch —

And a poem is planted, unfurls —
Grows into a new song.

 

~Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

that look in my eyes

close up of fish over black background

Yes, you saw it.
I know the spark —
that inquisitive glimmer
transcended the space
between us.

I like your eyes –
such deep honest orbs.
And I won’t try
to hide mine or
the flowing currents
they hold.

It was pain
of recognition
acceptance
that little place
of knowing –
Servitude:
yes, Lord —
I understand –

Because, as you say,
as I have said so often,
it IS about living it,
isn’t it? And so –

what you saw
in the churning depths
was the letting go
of wish-desire-want
the acceptance of
and surrender to
Truth.

After all, Truth
is what we’ve both
been excavating
and chasing
all of our lives.

God’s voice, the inner
demand for obedience,
is a heavy hand
weighted-hard —

In some moments.
Truth
arrives in a way
that pains the heart
but nourishes the soul.

 

~Photo by Chevanon Photography on Pexels.com

 

 

 

teach me of swimming

Swimming

How much does water weigh —
how does the heaviness taste
against your skin?

Tell me of floating
and what that bed touches
in the back that rests there.

How do the waves speak
as they wash your face
and roll into your mouth?

Do you hear mermaids or nothingness
as water slides above your brow
slips into your inner ear?

Do your hands feel tenderness
or anger boiling strumming
through the rushing water?

What do fish see?
What song do seashells sing?
Does the water know the difference
between the moon and the sun?

 

~Photo Credit: (c)2019 Marissa Mullins

 

seeing another seeker with empty hands

brown sand

8~24~2019

 

Memory: Bright-eyed boy telling me about Shark’s teeth —
I was above and beyond the mire of irrationality
then — as Seger says      Deadlines & Commitments
What to leave in, what to leave out.

Reality: There are dozens of us     hundreds
walking the shoreline of Myrtle
each day —

You will know us by our eyes
cast down, scanning the sand
looking for Grace reflected
in an ebony shine.

We are a greedy and gracious lot
depending on our need in that hour.
Sometimes hoarding
because we need every syllable God whispers.
Sometimes generous
seeing another seeker with empty hands –
we smile and pass a treasure off –
Here, these are for you.
Handing the letters of God to others
because we are all seeking
words to ease the suffering
of all the questions
that convince us
there is any other answer
but ourselves

believing
there is an answer
floating somewhere
in the sand
to who we are –
why we love –
how we are here.

 

 

~Photo by Miri on Pexels.com

 

less afraid of the dark

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

8~24~2019

Do you remember the nights
in dark moon absent hours
of deep crashing wave sounds?

You, with your bright flashlight
walking an impatient mile-a-minute
in front of me — always running —
while love-want-mothering-harlot
enveloped me in bliss and agony.

Duality — Loving a man-boy who
would never grow up. The letting go
ending every facet of my known world
(and I knew that truth then) Still — knew
the agony was my fight with God over
what was coming-inevitable-necessary.

I laughed and cried together as we
roamed the sand looking for treasure
on those deep warm summer nights,
saying goodbye to both of us in every step.
Your flashlight dimmer as you raced ahead
and as I followed, I knew I was becoming
less afraid of the dark.

I find shark’s teeth now
every time I visit the beach.
God and I, hand in hand, walking
together. He gives them to me —
a way of loving-forgiving
and remembering you.

 

 

~Photo by Lukas Rodriguez on Pexels.com

we love by degrees

woman with red hair and blue eyes

~August 2019

 

We love by degrees
of shadow and light.

The old man
tells a fishing story
his eyes filling up
with sea mist.

The young man
touts the size of his dick,
the number of conquests
his eyes glittering triumph.

The old woman
remembers her wedding
his eyes warm with love
the children she grew
and gave wings.

The young girl
rushes to get ready
for a first date lost
in fantasy and breathless
heartbeat
eyes gleaming with
anticipation.

We love by degrees
of shadow and light.

Like the pupil in our eyes
expansion    contraction
measured entry
as the world spins
onward in time
our hearts of stone
holding fires

that we water out
or add wood to
depending on the day.

 

~Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

 

but poets know

person wearing guys fawkes mask watching flame

~June 2019

There is a reason the snake bite
must be cut and bled,
a mouth needed to suck the poison
out, spit it away into nothingness.

I have heard it said of the great writer
that he is madness, an evil man with
evil stories.    But, no —
he writes to remove the poison images
and this is how he stays sane.

Jung’s dark Shadow theory —
what the mind hides inside it —
It becomes. The writer
realizes the freedom of releasing
the shadows so he can move on.

Every writer knows this truth,
but poets know the poison intimately.

 

 

~Photo by Ashutosh Sonwani on Pexels.com

 

from the shadow blooms

Rose darkbrush

Her fear enters the door ahead of her.
The fragile-silk side-step fear of trespass
that tells you she knows too many dark
hours — that she is a flower from the shadow
blooms beneath branches blocking

sunlight. Moves and changes come
with strong winds, tussled leaves
and limbs spinning the orbiting petals
upward  — into this fragile day of sun
that she both worships and fears.

The sun is a powerful god she loves, but
the trepidation and fear of transgression,
suspicion, uncertainty — the suspect knowing
of humble plant to mystic star, child to Lion,
needful flower to the light which sustains it.

These fears sit down as a group on the ground
around her roots, crawl up to perch on nearby
leaves and wait and watch and then — Wisdom
cradling Mercy in her breast, breathes healing
and the fears recede for now into the shadows.

 

~Photo Credit: Shadow Bloom, (c)2020 Marissa Mullins