For decades I couldn’t find a voice and what began as an experiment in healing has finally borne fruit in poetry. Occasionally there are lapses of non-creativity, the last few weeks for example.
My muse has fled with the winter’s sun
seeking colder climes to rejuvenate
I praise his resolve to sublimate
earthly desires; all impure thoughts shun.
His remit to knit the torn, frayed edges
Of a union now rift with open sores
His own compass shattered his journey paused
He longs for icy plains, plain messages
And what my muse pines for like a twin feel
I here, where mild winter has changed to chill
and greyness hangs over damp despairing
No nightingale or any creature living
Goes near this barren craft, there’s no sweet song
where notes are flat, the rhymes and rhythms wrong