My Muse

3 Comments

My Muse

Time is my muse

It is a river

that comforts and carries and
makes my soul crazy!


I ask the current to take my mind
into the past
along its banks old memories beckon
like lush trees that offer shade and relief
from the heat of the present
they are a forest

filled with thoughts and images,

passion and fears

and a constant whisper:
“Surrender”

 

but in a forest

one can easily lose their way

 

for the past is not something
that you can long hold
and Time’s pull, like a river
you cannot control

indeed the future is born

a new creation takes shape

when the past is wed to the present

 

it is the light

that plays on the landscape

as the Sun passes high overhead

this laughter was captured by Itchiku Kubota

on the canvas of a kimono

 

Time plays with the colors

of the landscape of my life

The moments are iridescent hues

that I capture as sorrow and regret

laughter and longing

in rows of muddled prose

from these

Time gently pulls me…

So I close my eyes

and let the river carry me home

 

Copyright ©2009 Anthony Hall

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ginga commented on My Muse

07-06-2009

Splendid images and such a serene river ride through emotions and life. Ginga

connsk8 commented on My Muse

06-20-2009

I keep going back to reread this, so many images and thoughts go through my mind at every reading, the use of illeration adds to the overall flow like the river of time of which you write, well done, I thoroughly enjoyed this, more than once!!

antman488

06/29/2009

Thank you, I am happy you enjoyed reading this more than once. I find I have to re-read my own work at times to grasp what it is I was saying. Hopefully it will continue to grow in richness.

dragynwynd commented on My Muse

06-03-2009

Very profound, excellent.....the words flow with character and imagery.....you are very taented....dragynwyn

antman488

06/04/2009

Hello dragynwynd, thank you for taking the time to read and comment on my poem. Your kind words are much appreciated - Anthony

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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