Thieves of Totality
All I have are thieves.
Thieves of time.
And captured in the nostalgia
for past selves
or selves I never was.
lost among the ruins,
even those are fading to black,
they still whisper to me,
and so many more judgments.
All the things I was not, yet
they have convinced me it’s
too late to do anything
except wait for the totality of silence.
The Alchemy of Time
The hourglass feeds on ghosts
it slows but never sleeps
the selfsame cycle of sand
still ticking away into eternity.
I should be able to
but nothing ever changes
except in dreams.
Which is real?
this static reality
or endless worlds
born from chimera and
Every night, I escape to
a new unknown
Which would you choose?
I ask, while knowing the answer,
yet, still, entrust my last wish to you,
walker of worlds,
and my never-ending ghost.
Please, fracture time
and bring me home.
I lost quite a few things during my last journey, so I’ve been retracing my steps in hopes of collecting them.
Things have just been…things.
Also, I’m afraid I’ve neglected my muse(s) as of late, but I took them on a blissfully simple summer picnic at the beach.*
I’ve been losing everything. It’s all sliding through cracks in the universe. Momentum. Focus. Dates. Stuff somebody just told me the day before. Or five minutes ago. Time goblins at work, maybe. Or I’ve gotten old in the space of a week.
In addition to the goblins that are taking up most of my brain space, I’ve had little wordlings floating around in my head. They seem significant, but that’s the curse of the creative sort. It seems wonderfully magical, or horribly prosaic. Still, I’ll put them away for safekeeping. Just in case the goblins get hungry.
a forest of ferns
endless, seething thunderstorms
ancient worlds with no humans
essence of summer
second chance to be a kid
unkindness of ravens
*Disclaimer: This is complete fiction. I’m nowhere near a beach. Except in dreamworlds. But I’ll send you a map if you bring the picnic. Or surprise me with a new When.†
‡But also possibly real in some other dimension.
I dreamt of my muse last night. That’s not unusual, but the nature of their entrance was not typical. Usually, it’s pretty dream-like…like I know it’s not really happening. That they are a fictionalized construct of that person, and the whole experience will end up in a poem.
Viola De Lesseps: I love you, Will, beyond poetry. —Shakespeare in Love
Last night, though? I didn’t even go looking for my muse, or build a dream around them before I went to sleep.
With all the force of a shock wave, they were there. Like lightning went all through me. My dreaming mind didn’t quite know what to do…and I’m used to having really vivid, lucid dreams. Imagine if somehow a flesh-and-blood person showed up in your dream, with no dream filters like magic and wishful-thinking scenarios or even surreal situations. And yet there was still magic surrounding my muse in their black-and-white (?) t-shirt and black jeans and looking a bit annoyed with having to punch their way into my dream. Sort of like a psychedelic swirling of rainbow colours behind them.
It was definitely one of the more interesting dream voyages I’ve had. So far, I haven’t found a poem to put that experience in, yet. Because it felt too real. And, yet, still wonderful.
wasted time channeled that perplexing dream into creating a new Pinterest board to display some of my sources of inspiration for my poems. Poetic Muse-ings
What sort of things serve as muses in your worlds?
William Shakespeare: My muse, as always, is Aphrodite.
Philip Henslowe: Aphrodite Baggett, who does it behind the Dog and Crumpet?
—Shakespeare in Love