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Peter Garrett Nov 14
I'm afraid my words
Will forever rest on
This mediocrity pillow
And I shall never be
Worthy of the
Muse's kiss
A poem about writer's block is such a bad cliché... but my friend Mariya here at HP was just talking the other day about 'der Kuss der Muse', so I think it's appropriate to write about it.

..It brings containment.

When young.. the world was dangerous,
at least the world within my home was.
In order to dilute the moments of perpetration,
I developed the ability to bring my little spirit
into the acknowledgment of atoms,
molecules and particles, within the universe
whose  very entrance into the room..

    could make miniscule,
   that which was behemoth.

In doing so, I was brought into the  awareness
of just how beautiful the Universe really is..
and also the intense depth of beauty that exists
in Realms that are just barely outside
of our awareness.

Within those Realms
and between those Realms,
are spirits that float..  
hovering between this place
and the beauty of that Next one.
Through touching those deeper parts of the Realms,
those spirits are ignited.. .

and through that beautiful ignition,
   are brought into full flame.

It is there within you, my beautiful friend;
that your Otherworldly words are given birth..
bringing within them, the depth of Love and Healing
  to those of us down here that need it most..

..A beautiful love that yes.. exists within the Realms..
But in it's very essence, flows directly from the Core Heart
of the Universe, which is always the place of Love's origin..
having come from that amazing Heart's deep Ache for us.

That beautiful Ache for us all, deeply touches you..
as you hover in and out of its Realms..
and then deeply touches us..
who have learned to draw on its power and beauty
for even our own very existence.
I am one of those who have had to learn
to draw from those things
just so that my spirit could even breathe..
And in an instant , upon reading,
I realized that you were one of those that go
from this place, up and over to the Next.
What you bring back down to this place,
Ignites every single part of who it is that I am.

You, writing from the feminine form..
mixed with the feminine of the masculine..  
deeply stirs the aching masculine within me.
There is a hunger almost sated,

as it leads into realms of a deeper hunger
and touches a rarely touched, deeper ache.

Warm tingling, leads to almost a tremble..
The deeply-touched heart cannot help but to  pulse
warmly
and fully,
into all of who it is that I am..

Sensations that lead to the need for deep release..
the thick, gathering of that ache
     in gratitude-filled response,

the deepest of penetrations  
into the gorgeously-receiving openness    
of such a beautiful, Life-bringing spirit.

There is a giving and receiving,
that is both Giving.. and Receiving
  in its own beautiful nature.

I hope I have not said too much.
   I am so glad to have you near.



We go dancing nightly in the attic
While the moon is rising in the sky
If I'm too rough, tell me
I'm so scared your little head
will come off in my hands

https://youtu.be/VnIv9D5SK2U?si=m4tYdTU79QPbOg3W

Million dollar baby
Billion dollar baby
Trillion dollar baby
Zillion dollar baby
amrutha Nov 1
let me meditate
on your voice
my sweet moon
you sound
like a being of the sky
a silver cloud
that turns with the night
damp blue

your laughter
the news
of first rain
a freshwater stream
lifegiving

the sound of your
cotton footsteps
my early mornings

the sight of your feet
my good fortune

I'm a poet, I must
carry my notebook around
just in case you turn to
look over your shoulder
on a sunny afternoon
the sun squinting
at the blinding light in the sky

I'll be back
when I have more to say
can you blame me
for falling short of words?

goodnight
Ken Pepiton Oct 25
Come, discern, focus,
conceive the two degree wide,
two said sounds wide, two words wide
agon, we call the mindspace, now, in time

agged into efforting conception, we hold each
a seed within ourselves, and we have been lead
to believe we learn in real time, while we digest

suggestions from the environs, while we why away
another reason war has used to make hate, articles
of faith, he who does not hate is father and his mother,

brother, did you take the oath,
the one at a four square baptism, didja?

So, you are pretty sure there is a hell to shun,
and one unrepented will to ill treat a living liar,
such as all men just happened to be, because,

and you know its true, because
the bible says Paul read in on a…

Ode to Zeus, factcheck me, I'm good.
no liar shall enter truths spirit will
to make up minds used to making peace
in terms of loving push and pull adverarial
wonderous chaotic beautiful rushes,
or thunderous clouds of sunset joy,
during latter rains, each year.

There it was on the way into the Agon,
where mottos enforce mental engagement,
- a royal society motto,
- take no man at his word, science proves
- true the admonition.

citizens must be readers ready to read the omens,
and the letters all spelled out in Delphic chance,
to those initiates in service as translators.

As your scribe, dear patron saint, what
would your holy other than usness say to us,

as we inquire in spirit form, mere thoughts,
from words another feeds us as we think?

It is the symbol of the curious, the wise serpent,
most honed first guess, right, answers sworn
do tell, as ever before becomes thinkable,

we can imagine humans building Machu Pichu,

crow-lee squacks, waddayathankftat.
an ion on a quest, I guessed. Trusting a wild idea
Ayesha Zaki Oct 21
I yearn to forget
these strokes of ancient paintings,
that decorate my soul
with the triumphs of
unidentified feelings.

The carefully carved muse
that once lived in my mind;
now drips in reverie, one by one,
as silence takes over its reign.
It was beautiful at one point, but nothing ever lasts.
BipolarBear Oct 20
Every artist needs a muse.
For emotion
can neither be created nor destroyed.

It must be felt and expressed.
Each piece of art,
a replication
spurred by deep appreciation.

You my love,
could birth a city
of singers and musicians;
ballerinas and bakers;
painters, poets and pastry chefs.
unnova Oct 17
When a star dies
It explodes in a pond of colour
It's glow traverses the unforgiveness of time
And a voice pronounces your name

I am far from what I muse live
Haunted by a curse of my fate
But still enchanted by your existence
Never ceasing to burn the candle of my reason

I dream of your famished touch
Your skin labored by perfection
As an artist, you create an ethereal beauty
As an artist, I preserve your beauty with words

You exist only in my lonesome thoughts
My dreams are a bucker
How could you be so far away
If only you are my serenity

Your name is an hymn for love
Star will forever self-destruct
With the hope to become you
The existence of the eternal muse
rhenee rose Oct 3
People say that absence makes the heart grow fonder;
But I do propose a more fitting word to use!

Isn’t that absence makes the heart go angry?
Conflicts and clashes, arguments at its best.

Isn't that absence makes the heart go weary?
Your warmth is what I need in this tangled mess.

Isn't that absence makes the heart go crazy?
Only with you, my mind can easily rest.

And yet, our love is still a pretty wonder;
I am yours, and you will always be my muse.
A poem about that infamous quote.
Nyx Sep 30
You know how the saying goes:
They write one and you know they love you
They write a hundred and they love the craft
I'll admit
I've written a hundred and more, 'm sorry

I'm getting sick and tired of the same routine
Pacing all night
Until I collapse, exhausted

Spinning my wheels, running on fumes,
And ultimately getting nowhere.

I'm thinking of blowing this whole thing up
And starting from scratch
Because after we ended things
It took you half the time to recover that I did.

You know how the saying goes
And those are the consequences of having a muse.
You corrupted the art
And turned it into an obsession.

I've been limited,
Waxing poetic about your body, your soul, your grip on me
And nothing more.

Take this as a goodbye letter
To: you
And for: me
Take this as a promise to stop looking back.

I'll write about the stars
The wind in my hair
And how the birds sing to greet the early morning.

Maybe one day I'll write about someone new.

I'll write about living, and stop thinking about you.
"If he writes her a few sonnets, he loves her. If he writes a few hundred sonnets, he loves sonnets".
unnova Sep 25
How I wish to be born as one of his tears—
So I could travel down his cheek,
And die on his lips.
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