Poet’s Muse

Long road spent between these pages,
life and worries, true love and rages
that fill the vacant lines with scenes,
reality based or wakening dreams…

‘Tis still the stuff of spirit’s life
when to this human form is shaped,
blessing’s miles, confounded strife,
be hero kind or villain caped.

For India in thanks and bows,
to fill the blotter with blackened tonic,
that by the quill and madman’s dreaming
twist the common to most ironic.

But bliss is this sweet expression lain,
when to myself and God explain
the content, part and parcel thought
and so by dreams in verse are wrought.

Be thankful, lazy wandering poet,
for published yes or naught, will know it
when days have waned to breaths in counting,
waiting for the last breath’s mounting,
that life fulfills this spirit’s dreams,
draws lessons from the daily scenes
of family, son’s and daughter’s trials,
to be charmed by quill and ink in vials.

So to the passerby may seem,
revelation in genius, or madman’s scheme.
Be heart at pouring tear and love,
be politically driven, remove the gloves
and belch and scream of disrepair…

But neither one, nor all of these,
enchants this poet or dress’ to please
as much as what his muse can bring,
when by her love and kiss doth spring
his heart and soul in flesh and care…
my pen and ink, words on lines –
belong to her – from her – I swear!