~
of late he finds
his muse asleep,
with none to waken
none to stir;
slows the flow
from drops to drip,
his secrets deep
are held with her.
yet he endures this
momentary dearth,
knowing soon enough
the seasons change;
again will come
her joyous rains,
she will return
with current rushing;
drought adjourned,
her torrent gushing;
to wet his dry parched lips;
satisfy the cracked red earth,
nourishing the fallow ground;
restoring flow, reviving hope,
his muse rebounds to life.
begins a simple trickle,
blossoming of ’er fine mist;
touch of muse on every droplet,
silver prose in golden goblets.
calloused hands,
though not from fields,
smith no less in words.
spinning yarns in terms
tell of tales unheard;
in spilling words unwritten,
life discharging burdens;
though too late for some,
with many suns to go
he is slow learning,
heart yearning,
softened saudade
to a past unchanged
but head now turned,
heart re-affirmed
stepping to-ward,
to the forward...
again a future taking.
now they’re churning
forth like water,
each formed thought
a droplet breaking.
once free from all confines,
springing from prolific mind,
a garden fountain’s constant flow;
a hillside’s floral spray disrobed.
conceived behind these
quiet, hallowed walls,
his muse gives birth,
her cries of pain
with joyful echo ring,
clearly down these
ancient halls, and
out across the wooded hills.
this child is free,
no more this need
for silent screams, or
coloring between the lines.
breaking from entrapment,
unfettered and unwrapped;
responsive reading’s call,
believer’s whispered
prayer is heard...
his muse has been restored.
~
*post script.
fellow writers have told me
their words most often
arrive in torrents. i share
this view... this experience,
where for days nothing, until...
the mind writes faster than the pen.
- saudade-
sau·da·de /souˈdädə/
a word with no English equivalent;
a sense of wishful longing,
melancholy, or nostalgia.
(Portuguese)
though a bit melancholic,
this is yet a hopeful song,
for after the dark...
the storm, comes the dawn.*
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
~
of late he finds
his muse asleep,
with none to waken
none to stir;
slows the flow
from drops to drip,
his secrets deep
are held with her.
yet he endures this
momentary dearth,
knowing soon enough
the seasons change;
again will come
her joyous rains,
she will return
with current rushing;
drought adjourned,
her torrent gushing;
to wet his dry parched lips;
satisfy the cracked red earth,
nourishing the fallow ground;
restoring flow, reviving hope,
his muse rebounds to life.
begins a simple trickle,
blossoming of ’er fine mist;
touch of muse on every droplet,
silver prose in golden goblets.
calloused hands,
though not from fields,
smith no less in words.
spinning yarns in terms
tell of tales unheard;
in spilling words unwritten,
life discharging burdens;
though too late for some,
with many suns to go
he is slow learning,
heart yearning,
softened saudade
to a past unchanged
but head now turned,
heart re-affirmed
stepping to-ward,
to the forward...
again a future taking.
now they’re churning
forth like water,
each formed thought
a droplet breaking.
once free from all confines,
springing from prolific mind,
a garden fountain’s constant flow;
a hillside’s floral spray disrobed.
conceived behind these
quiet, hallowed walls,
his muse gives birth,
her cries of pain
with joyful echo ring,
clearly down these
ancient halls, and
out across the wooded hills.
this child is free,
no more this need
for silent screams, or
coloring between the lines.
breaking from entrapment,
unfettered and unwrapped;
responsive reading’s call,
believer’s whispered
prayer is heard...
his muse has been restored.
~
*post script.
fellow writers have told me
their words most often
arrive in torrents. i share
this view... this experience,
where for days nothing, until...
the mind writes faster than the pen.
- saudade-
sau·da·de /souˈdädə/
a word with no English equivalent;
a sense of wishful longing,
melancholy, or nostalgia.
(Portuguese)
though a bit melancholic,
this is yet a hopeful song,
for after the dark...
the storm, comes the dawn.*
Request permission to use this poem