I have stared at blank
pieces of paper
waiting on the ink of my tears
to fill pages with wisdom,
with memory, with love
and nothing
the muse has refused
me at every turn,
she silent in the way
a toddler pitches a fit of silence
angry that I have neglected her,
or at least not cooed over
her accomplishments
and she is accomplished
having brought trophies
before, turns of phrases
pretty in sunlight
metaphors so sound
they still reverberate
in space
she knows I wasn't paying attention
that I was caught up in the business
of making a living
and refusing to live
so, she went silent
and said--in effect--
let me know when you're ready
to know the truth again,
when you're ready
to rhyme it into existence
when the wastelands
of economics cease to fascinate
you and I'll be back
just let me know
so now, I--the not-poet--
pine for her,
looking out the window
for the dust that trails
the coming car on a country road
long for her,
straining for some hint of her
and if you get any glimpse of her, friend,
well
just let me know.
© Valerie Bridgeman
July 20, 2011
Ooooohhh I know this. Love it.
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