Day 6 Poem- My Second Muse

When the second Muse came, She filled the house with laughter, promises and a faint scent of jasmine with lemon grass.

My Second Muse     (A prose poem)   Day 6. NaPoWriMo

When the second Muse came, She filled the house with laughter, promises and a faint scent of jasmine mixed with lemon grass.  At first, ‘this is too much’ I thought, just returned from the South Seas, waiting to meet her in the foyer. But she refused to show her face, racing barefoot down the hall in gossamer thread and giggles.

More shy than the first, happier, more impish, this Muse rose early, pulling curtains to wake us, tossing things carelessly and humming in a voice so faint you had to strain to hear… “fireflies and little lies are all I want for breakfast!”.   My laughter would bring her closer.   She was Silly but Industrious, working late into the night on sweet tea and blackberries… wearing velvet hats, pearls, and exotic ribbons.   Soon she sang  constantly.  I borrowed her keys for silk thread transitions, while she danced tempos and  allegrettos con brio.

A dark swallow, she hovered and dove while I worked- throwing things if she heard notes misplaced, giggling in G when vibrato behaved- but all wordless. Until the day I placed certain lyrics within the cove of one of her melodies- the one with the flying tempos and swan dive horns. I was thinking of one South Easterly with a certain laugh pattern as I scratched lyrics in indigo-

“Don’t dare waste my melody on that one.” Her voice was sweet. Firm.  Low. “These notes are ONLY for the Ones You Have Yet to Meet.”

Her ONLY made me resist. She stamped her feet. I explained. She shouted. I defended. She pouted. Woods beneath us swelled and retreated. Drama came for Days to the little green house, rain pouring all around us.   Thundering mad, we ate in silence, skirting all shadows and obvious artifacts.   We finished several songs, between storms, but this one had us loggerhead red for four nights.

Until the morning- she stood crying at the side of my bed,  “Stupid girl!  To waste such Beauty on fumeroles!- fat and spouting toxic! When will you learn! I’m leaving” she declared.  I paniced. “No. We’re not finished.   You give me no robato! Please- Just give one clue about the One  I Should Be Writing For- I can’t see through this passion play!”   She sat up straight through crystal tears. “’Bout time you asked.”

“They will be 5 in 1.  And playing my ghost notes- the ones I made you write with invisible ink on papyrus sash.  And they will be smiling.  For you. My smile.  Because you will finally sing my secrets lighter than air.

30 poems in 30 days: NaPoWriMo

A classic red cruiser: the Schwinn Phantom. Th...
Image via Wikipedia

I just realized that this, being April, is National Poetry Month- and so the NaPoWriMo or National Poetry Writing Month challenge is ON! “Participants attempt to write a poem a day for the month of April.”   i like how they say “attempt.”  How gentle.  😉   I’m going to do this one,  though I’m 4 days late.  I hope you don’t mind- I may throw in lyrics occasionally too- as I am supposed to be finishing 3 songs this week before recording next.   Ah  yes, recording… am finishing my CD this month too!  Taking this on will be a true challenge.   But I put it off year after year, and this time, I want to do it.

To catch up, I’ll first post a poem that I just edited/finalized- though I didn’t start it from scratch today.  I do promise to write and post 30 from scratch this month though!  This one harkens back to my days in Sacramento, riding my favorite cruiser, and being passed by a siren of a girl riding her cruiser too  😉

Grrl Cruising

Brunette beach is rolling in ~
no faster than a single speed
can crest, its smooth mint frame
and chrome shiny handle bars
grabbed wide for laying back
riding low and just before beyond,
behind everything that once
mattered.

Doppler.

Phase un-phasing, cycle un-snaking
sinoidal.  Unflappable, she rides

~ oscillation onyx ~

hair waving, turning wide, leaning into
the red, the highlight, the backside of creshendo,
apex basking in slow motion glow.

She rides in pocket & groove
between bell & basket
assailing swells on panting pavement
the magnanimous magnolia
& its julep on a cruiser~

polka dots scream- jumping from her dress
to mine, this thirst, this rhythm
this hands-free life.

 


Feed the Soul~ Music, Poetry, Pictures…

“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” Johann W. von Goethe

“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.”

Johann W. von Goethe
(German Playwright, Poet, Novelist and Dramatist. 1749-1832)

With so much going on in the world now- it is so easy to forget…

Goodness. And beauty.

tara

Thirst

Rain Poem

Standing in the street today
drinking you down
mouth open to the sky
to corral the tiniest of gifts,
each one tasting of
galaxy
cloud
cold front
Ions abandoned mid-air
somewhere far
over a lightning sea
now falling on me
past parted lips,
into one celestial
sip.

All this after counting leaves
(only red) on the left side of
the street, near trees whose secret purple
berries lie dangerously ripe
against the gray sky, with all
the childhood that escaped once-
now spinning wildly inside- into an almost scream
running uphill, eyes closed
I meet the rain that has finally
come to bathe us
clean.


Opening

Filamentous dance. Curious, fully extending into

the blue. Trust, beyond their variegated halves

splits them open, taking-in whatever

passes by. Present

(or what does it mean to process the world through poetry?)


Not words.

Not the brain directing traffic

(even as amorphous mass).  Just bivalves

just opened, their minute antennae reaching out

waving.  Filamentous dance.  Curious, fully extending into   

the Blue.  Trust, beyond their variegated halves

moved to take-in whatever passes by.

Presence

in good time~   edgy electric, spiny sweet succulent

or bad~    passing shadow, memories,  stinging cells

that may slam them shut.

No matter.  “Water

never navigates the thermocline

the same twice.”  Soothes vertical.  And hunger

always erasing, invites, opens

the animal again in hope.

Just looking

for something good

to eat.

Cavernous

Prose Poem-Cavernous

You name several things, from a list that says—“Over”. Quietly, slowly, each one pulled from the clingy green moss culled from a black mirrored lagoon. We talk on the phone, you-boarding a plane, me- driving 72mph southeast across the desert.  Two time-zones between us.   Functionally connected, we map a soundweb of present tenses.  Strangers mingle all around-  you apologize.  To whom, no one knows. Fiber optics, now buried beneath sand and shale, split your words down a ravine. All the way to Yuma.  Overture in Aorta minor.  “But there is more”, you say, forgetting the package you just detonated. You want to explain more- later.  Yes, I acquiesce.  Driving numb through a blond cholla forest, ocotillo waving on the outer rim. A blue border of mountains protecting me from anything bad ahead, friends bantering  in the backseat.  Space permeates.  But here in the desert, I get more.  And So I take it.  All of it. Down.  Deep as my last breath.  Down to the bottom of the cavern.  And back.  Space surrounds.  Mine is succulent, yours stratospheric.

Relief.

———————————————————————————-

From: Experiments in Prose.

Poem by Tara Linda.  Copyright 2010.