Sonnet To An Enigmatic Muse. Poem by Richard Blanch

Arch djinns of soft darkness, nonchalantly, filling shaded eyes
Angle moving limbs; stretched tendons, a careless jutting hip, careful poise
Healing distillates of midnight welling up from every pore
Spill with every gentle lash’s blinking.. Arcs of effortless lore

Neatly, instinctively inform the coming golden dawn
Implicitly of encryptions it ignores: smooth, better coloured joys-
Here are many, many truths They mist and mingle, charming toys
Silently shown against the pane. Old thought- patterns are torn

Elegantly baffling the elder eye till it sees nothing more
Resolved than kaleidoscopes of changing time, wit, place, tone,
No ease, no indolence, drowsy numbness – nor no sweet moan
Open this Chapman’s Homer. Nightingales may sing alone
Early and late - substance shimmers tempting, silky, fond.
While caring poets claim, in vain, the essence for their own..

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