Finished on November 15th, 2014 at 6:26 a.m.
On a cold day I was woken,
To a frightening kind of sound,
*Note to self: This poem speaks to you Shelton. Within your soul it hides. Finish it when you’re ready* -Signed; Yourself on July 23rd, 2010.
*Note to Self: I am here sir, and I am ready.* -Signed; myself on November 15th, 2014 at 5:50 a.m.
Five years later the frigid wind and clouds,
Red with the reflection of the city lights,
Swirl about my window outside,
Frigidly wishing to bring the season’s first snow…
I wrestle internally at 5:50 a.m.
Seeking to draw back to life my long dead muse,
A muse that, though not very effective by anybody else’s standards,
Always seemed to work for me?
A muse, I just realized, I’d killed via journalism.
Like a greek goddess, it was given to my by God,
Not some foreign, pagan God,
But by the God of my fathers,
All Glory be to Him… *internal thought: “Him” = capitalized*
My light words flutter across the page and even now I fight it,
The desire to go back and edit in Associated Press style,
Even knowing that by the nature of what this is,
Journalism would never regard the writer worthy enough to share such emotion.
Such frustration and angst… *shakes head*
Cuddled up in bed at 5:50 a.m. alone,
Hoping I can save the essence of the lovely one as she hides in my soul,
Like the lovely gaelic goddess Venora, waiting to be rescued.
Very few readers will get that reference, and those that do will probably roll their eyes😉
Longing, looking, exercising poetic devices I know how to use,
But can’t really truly use,
When inspiration remains hidden within, locked away in a cell like William Wallace,
A few more people will probably got THAT reference.😉
So much frustration at not writing poetry for so long!
So much fear, that perhaps I’ve killed my second true love!
I seek within, pondering, praying,
Then I shut the screen off all together.
This work should not be of the eyes, but of the heart.
I don’t need to see what I’m writing….This is an internal affair.
My writing starts to flow and my heart starts to glow!
Suddenly, maybe she isn’t dead! Maybe my muse survives!
I channel her, praying I can summon her from the depths of my soul!
Come to life oh lovely heart! Come to life oh muse!
My heater in my place turns off, holding a comfy 68 degrees…*so cold*.
Oh a cold day, I was woken
The birds chirped not, the traffic was stopped,
Life’s pulse seemed to drop…
In that awkward silence, I felt I could hear my own heartbeat.
On a cold day I was woken,
The performance of the play.
Then a wind came over me,
and my sails filled again
And I rode the soft poem,
Right through the ocean’s end.
I create something marvelous,
Alone it grows in my soul…