lest ye become a poet. For a long time I convinced myself I was just uttering these poems into the abyss. The abyss has started whispering back. My muse has returned. I knew that if I made myself write every little trivial thing that skitters across my mind then more and more words would come crawling out of the woodwork, but with quantity does not come quality. However, if I stop then I fear the words will stop. So here I go again. Unpolished and perhaps unfinished, my offering:
Muse
He's dark and he's pale
He's coffee and wine
He's strong and he's frail
He's rough and he's fine
He's hot and he's cool
He's godly and base
He's wise and a fool
Devil's hand, angel's face
He loves and he hates
He pushes and waits
He's crooked and straight
My choice and my fate
Bourbon on my tongue
and sorrow on my mind
The grace I've lost
and still hope to find
A blessing and a curse
The crossing and the line
Sonnets and blank verse
All or Nothing at the same time
southern martyr
1-12-10
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment