THE MUSE

I’m just learning this morning of Cynthia’s passing. She was immensely talented and I’m so grateful for her support over the years. She was kind, and lovely, and I will miss her little corner of the ‘net most terribly.

Rest well, dear Cynthia!

littleoldladywho.net

The Muse is usually a she
according to art history.
More than once I’ve
served in that capacity.

I’ve also known it as a he
a love, an ardent kind
of sustenance, a boon
to heart and mind.

In the end I think
it is a voice inside
wherever the best
part of me abides.

It is ancient, bardic,
will not be cajoled
or come when called
or do as it is told.

“Do the work,” it says,
“and leave the door ajar.
Do not worry.
I know where you are.”
.
.
THE MUSE

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the winter roost

snow-crow-07

the crows come again, perch within the remnants of summer - turned to rust and rue; they've come again with their own narrative, their inscrutable truths - strike their own lines against November's sky, while we try blindly (futile) to navigate stolen darknesses; fixed, and non-migratory - roosting in huddled groups for the long and … Continue reading the winter roost

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road-984118_640

thinking of those days behind the wheel, cat stretched across the dash, exemption stretched out along straight, gray highways trying now not to swallow that hook, though lately it seems the city hates me, shoves me toward her swilled-to-the-gill gutters back then, there was the bag kept in the back and it didn't matter that … Continue reading *

the waiting

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the waiting creeps up from feet, passes hips, submerges wrists in slippery uncertainty naturally, the ear strains to catch the subtle shift of air that marks departure no one ever sings through the smoke of staying - love and smoke both only ever go sometimes you get so caught up in the leaving, all kisses … Continue reading the waiting

what has been lost

smoke

love remaining half-asked, with an exile's hunger, what have you lost? smoke never stops moving, alters nothing, and leaves irretrievably when exactly does time distill us down to fire? down to accumulated passion? at what point have we traded the marked directions of known constellations for the possible light of far, unseen stars? I carry … Continue reading what has been lost

the departed

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your departure has the weight of ash no longer carrying your fate, I return to my old shape days hold their same complexities but night has become startlingly simple - rucked sheets, wooden bed-frame - there's no need to believe in anything else how is it that you ever fit inside these walls? inside this … Continue reading the departed

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while there is time, before light returns to nothing - --listen-- the silence that arises following the wreck is our sound of goodbye we are both of us composed of calligraphies the other will never read © Sarah Whiteley