Muse bemuse

Erato

She has been a muse
nothing more and
everything less
since we met as teens

inspiration still flows
from a fleeting reminder;
hearing her name
(commonly used by others
out of parental laziness)
the searing stubbed-toe
pain of an emotional owie
only she could’ve kissed
and made better

longing springs from trying
to remember just why
pinpoint specifics of how;
pixellated memories
vaguely distinguishable
from imagination

I was never her destiny
not even on the periphery
of being a fallback option
as I don’t believe she ever
wrote a single word of me,
save long-ago-stopped-
exchanging Christmas cards

Thalia

as my muse she has become
more verb than noun
a contemplative touchstone
to a time when faux
inspired creativity passed
for honest insight

confirming my relief that
I am neither sculptor or
painter…but a simple poet
– prone to and forgiven for –
hyperbole and other creative
transgressions, writing with
suspended creative license,
failing to not yield
to the pedestrian

But is it art?

Large, bold strokes
spray painted symbols, words
innocent and sinister hieroglyphs
and slogans in black and blue
on pulsating, animated canvas

Names, times, events, places
feelings and forgotten emotions

weathered, all

Some are ancient, indecipherable
some still hurt some never did
some are funny a few not at all

Many names are legible, a.k.a’s
various wry nom de plumes abound

gratuitous entries outnumbered by
the meaningful but misinterpreted
by others, Rosetta stones be damned

Emotional vandals. Heart graffiti.