The poetry rhymes or doesn't The flowery angry or heartbreaking words are released upon the page Stories tug at heartstrings Flooding emotions scream and cry The darkness within or without finds its way through my fingertips What appears upon the page not always in my control My muse takes me on Rides I never dreamed of Places and people never seen Stirrings emotions never before felt My exploration of the human experience captured laid bare upon the page Somewhere between the lines I find myself (C) 2019 Penny Wilson
Let's go there now. This island you've built for us. I see it surrounded not by the sound of the surf but the beating of your heart next to mine. No sun to warm us instead we bask in the glow of love's flame. The sun shines down on our little island and the tropic nights sing our lullaby. Our island. Here. With you. (C) 2019 Penny Wilson Image by Leonardo Valente from Pixabay
REBLOG: Don’t miss this beautiful piece by Anita Dawes. ❤
From her Mind I have in my many years seen shit float Heard it speak many languages So the other day I was surprised When my granddaughter asked “Nana, if the moon takes light from the sun Does she cry tears of gold?” I was taken back by this for a moment Unsure how […]
REBLOG: A sentiment we should all be mindful of. Please enjoy this beautiful poem! ❤
I saw it just on the other side of the meadow.
There has been a time when The Threshold was within me, barely restrained, bursting at the seams to get out and into the light of day.
Was this it? It had been so long since I’d seen it, I wasn’t sure. Sometimes it would appear just on the edge of my peripheral vision, vanishing when I looked directly at it. Other times it was like a warm hug, enveloping my entire being.
Carefully, I made my way across the dew laden grass. I didn’t dare blink, lest it disappear. Ignoring the chill of my bare feet, I approached as quietly as I could.
Standing before it, I reached out a tentative, trembling hand. What would it hold this time? What magic lay on the other side?
I took a deep breath and stepped across The Threshold.
(C) 2019 Penny Wilson
*The original version of this was written in 2016. I liked it quite a lot back then but have reworked it a little. I hope you enjoyed.
We all have scars. Cracks that will mend with the mortar of a life lived. There are also the cracks that never heal. The ones that are open, always, to the next life event.
You take me as I am. I don’t know if you don’t see the lines, cracks, and the scars. Or if you choose not to see them. Either way, I find myself at peace with you. No guards up. No false fronts to maintain. With you, I can just be. Nothing more. Nothing more is needed or expected.
Cracks in the familiar are not rebuffed by you. You caress and cherish each one. You take them and accept them as if they were adored icons. You look in my eyes and see what others do not. You see my light shining through the cracks.
(C) 2019 Penny Wilson
What does my muse look like? A lot like me, but much younger; late twenties, perhaps early thirties. She’s tall and lean with long flowing dark hair that is crazy-wild. Her eyes are full of fire and attitude. You wouldn’t mess with this girl. But who IS she exactly?
Sometimes, she’s right there on my shoulder, whispering delightfully witty prose into my ear. Other times, she’s stomping around the room, steam coming from her ears as she rants and raves about the injustices in her life. She can weep like a little girl with her first crush or spew sensual lines of love.
My muse also has an “I don’t give a sh*t” attitude sometimes. At these times, what ends up on the screen is not worth the effort it took to type it.
There are times when my muse is exhausting. Tap, tap, tapping at the keys, furiously trying to record the thoughts in her (my) head. I can barely keep up with the flow of her need to express herself.
Sometimes my muse disappears. She gives me no notice, doesn’t leave a note letting me know when or if she’ll be back. She’s terribly selfish at times like this.
But eventually, she comes back, perky and smiling, ready to provide me with more inspiration, ideas and the gift of expressing my inner thoughts.
I know my muse better than anyone else. Ever. But there are times when she surprises me. She can be very dark, ugly even. The things that she’s forced me to write make me shudder and shake my head with revulsion. I’m shocked at the brutality that comes forth. We somehow manage to reconcile and join forces again.
My muse is a shape-shifter. She’s an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colors, moods, and light. I love her and despise her. But I wouldn’t want to ever be without her.
Do you have a muse? What is your muse like?
Copyright (C) 2019 Penny wilson