Apr 13, 2010

As if.

My muse goes whistling now,
having left song and instrument
for the careless warmth of a new sun.
She gives me a knowing glance as she turns
quickly on one heel,
strolling devil-may-care
and by-your-leave
upon the bowers of spring blossoms.
Swinging hips
and saucy thoughts
were never so determined
to march me into madness
as I follow along, helpless...
trying to keep apace
lest I lose sight of her
and she fall into some mischief
or merriment
and leave me wanting and wondering.

Ah, she is grand, to let me find her!
She playfully waits for my addled senses
to arrive in the moment she has made,
and there stand I,panting for breath,
and she, laughing and sighing.
One more sidelong smile, a flash of inspiration,
and off she goes, with swinging hips,
saucy thoughts,
whistling some forbidden tune.


kdzu said...

She is indeedy-do Grand.
Thanks for sharing.
Well done.

Joan of Argghh! said...

I blame it on the Bossa Nova. . .

Joan of Argghh! said...

. . . or hormones.

Jean said...

Don't ya just want to slap her, sometimes?

Joan of Argghh! said...

Absolutely. I hate her when she's gone and I'm mad at her when she's here.

sheri said...

Joan I totally get it. I have the same thing. TIRED OF TALKING TO MYSELF. No shit. It's SO fucking frustrating, isn't it?

Maybe you can email with me and we can bitch about shit in email. Sometimes I end of cutting and pasting some of my email "brilliance" (respecting the other side's privacy, of course) and using it as a post or part of one. I find I sometimes write more "like me" in email than if I sit in the blog edit screen. Just a thought, anyway.

julie said...

Amen. Especially since she has a maddening tendency to show up when there's nothing you can do about it, and vanish when you're near the appropriate medium.

Froth said...

Muses are ho's. And schizophrenic.