Amidst the dull maize sunset
and the chill of soon to come night.
I wait for darkness to descend, a welcome friend.
My muse rises from depths, a whisper
barely audible, pressing, a hunger
that needs to be fed.
She sings of present and past alike.
Memories that have to be told,
Thoughts of youth, things of now, shards
of my life gathered, abstract pictures
painted in mosaics of me.
Completely captivated by 'My muse rises from depths, a whisper / barely audible, pressing, a hunger / that needs to be fed.' In my case, my muse screams at me, often in foreign tongues, that it invariably takes inordinate intervals of time to translate, then transcribe-that it's quite maddening, to say the least, and always when the darkness descends. I can see why you would have this framed; a sheer delight, Joyce. All my best to you, Red, Greg
Sandra and Hugh thank you both so much. I have this poem framed on my kitchen wall. I have a mozaic as a backsplash behind my sink. Red
Clarity of vision. Fine descriptive imagery. Your word picture paints itself into the reader's mind. Kind regards, Sandra
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A stunning piece from beginning to end... brilliantly done, Joyce! Brian