Very seldom does my muse offer me her gifts when not prompted. Usually I must light candles, sit with ink pen poised and notebook awaiting greedily. I must think, read, reflect...sometimes even desperately beg or pray....but once she appears, she is glorious. I imagine she looks somewhat like a diva in some grand dress, she walks center-stage quietly. A mousy thing that does not speak...oh, but when she sings, her voice is phenomenal!
I think my muse daily for the gift of her words, poetry, stories. For the quirky way she allows me to always see old things with new eyes.
And I adore this poem to (of, about) one's muse.
by David Yuen
You keep glowing
and I grow tired.
But your wings are always shining.
Shining as faint as a platinum sky
that binds these rings beneath
my crusty eyes.
In a dark room bathed in winter
I turn to ask you
when I am finished.
I plead with you to tell me
when I can leave.
But you, with your robes of pale heaven,
but you, with your lonely eyes
tell me to stay just a little longer
till the night grew bitter.
Lifting my wrinkled hands into yours
you held them close to you
embracing them tenderly
as though they were
from Poetry East, Fall 2009 Number 66, "Seasons"