My Muses

My Muses

I have a muse that set me off.

I have a muse that keeps me going.

The first was a flash in the pan.

The other is the coal in my home hearth.

I had finger painted with words in awkward rhymes,

But would not have called my self an artist.

I am just a storyteller.

I met a girl who plucked my heart strings.

They sang for the first time,

But she did not hear.

At a party for her they put up a poster board card on the wall.

I wanted to say something more than cliche.

A water color of words washed across the wall.

"She bows her head

Like gossamer wings of angels

Her hair cascades down.

Strong men softly sigh. 

Doves take flight,

And God smiles.

She is his precious child.

Like he did when he created light,

He says, "She is good".

And behold, she is good.

This opened a floodgate and I filled notebooks.

Before I could share this treasure trove,

She misunderstood a word and a gesture.

She burned the bridge I was standing on, 

And the path to it, and salted the fields around.

I now had some good sad poems.

As I shared them at our poetry circle,

I plucked the heartstrings of a sweet ginger.

I heard them and she heard me.

She is in bed beside me as I write.

She is my wife, my fan, my critic,

And my favourite poem.