Lost and Found
The store had everything
Everything I gave away
and wish I hadn’t
plus everything I wanted
but didn’t need
and even a couple of things I secretly did.
The best part about thrift stores is
you find what you weren’t looking for
among all the people from my past
you were there, talking about
a tennis lesson in Florida,
of all things.
Even more improbable,
I was playing matchmaker, yet
I disentangled myself from the woman
who wanted to meet you
in real life.
Near my old record collection,
we eloped, trying to find a world
where no-one knew us,
but my past found me,
that thief of impossible worlds,
and I lost you, too.
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.
In the real world,
I am maddened by my
In my dreams,
even such as painted
logic holds sway
and everything is as it should be
The only thing missing is you,
in both my worlds.
You are only found in the
and the fever is talking me
into believing you are real,
into believing that we are real,
this hope might be my final undoing.
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
Painting a Warrior
In my dreams
I take countless liberties.
You were always fae
but warrior was new
when I dreamed you
the night before.
A protector of lost ones
because I am selfish in my own dreams
and also demanding.
I asked you to save the world
from us humans, no matter what it takes.
Because I’m not callous enough to ignore
the killing of animals
If you save them, I promise you,
I’ll join your army.
Wrote a poem about an hour or so ago to submit to a contest, titled Bonfire. It was the day of bonfires earlier this week, which probably inspired it.
But, I’m a water person, usually. Water, coolness, rain, overcast skies. Yet, a fire elemental has been making its presence known. Hence the other part of the inspiration. In dreams. In random thoughts. In my poetry. In waking life. Then I signed back online to enter the poem. And encountered more fire synchronicity to wrap up the week. I feel a little haunted and eerie, even though I largely accept Neil DeGrasse Tyson’s practical/scientific view(s) on such mental/emotional phenomenon.
So I used the poem I wrote for the contest to siphon off some of the feelings towards the fire element I’ve been having lately. A short story for another contest is going to hold some more. And the leftover I was planning on putting in another poem for share on here, sometime soon. But now I feel like a mimic, albeit unintentional. And it’s nice to muse on, but I’m not sure whether I also believe in Jung’s theory of collective unconsciousness (or my interpretation of said theory).
Still, words clamour inside my head to be let out. To be heard. And, like most writers, I can only release them, and hope they are heard by those who need them the most. Who are listening with the right-place-right-time heart. And maybe they will be someone else’s synchronicity.
The snake catches fire.
I burn it to be free
of this infinite loop.
Of walking in circles
Spiralling around from dreams to life and back again.
Yet, I love being lost in the maze and
trapped in this mystery.
Are these glimpses more fulfilling
than the reality of you?
The poet in me asked the void.
I defend myself.
I burn the bridge, I say,
because I’m tired of darkness and shadows and half truths and ghosts that go bump
inside my head.
I want fire.
I want to scorch my world to cinders.
And I want you to be the water,
from which my phoenix is born.