Waiting patiently for the Muse’s return
A pure idea to refresh the new day
Tepid sips off the scalding coffee urn
Molding a thought to quietly display
Translating emotion; an implicit admission
Each worthy of their own silent moment
Stretching ink in all the right positions
The journey of imagination with delicious intent
Just leave me to my own amusements
I’m not looking to bother nor interfere
Allow me to remain spectacularly awkward
I still have no idea what I’m doing here
Permit me to live this adventurous life
In spite of love being impossible to arrange
I’m still seeking peace for this peculiar soul
& a hope I can remain delightfully strange
Searching cavernous souls
Racking what I might believe
Splitting hairs of fragrant
Ideas wandering down my sleeve
But I’m not more righteous
Than the boys down on the beat
I’m flawed, sensitive – prone to anger
Stuck in a commuting rut; weakly on repeat
There’s quiet secret I might contain
Love & passion bubbling just beneath my skin
I think in poetry, but you desire a hero
Can’t compete with expectations; our mutual chagrin
She wore white to the hanging
Fingers smudged from setting the patriarchy to burn
She wore a guilty smile
For they would never ever seem to learn
By her beauty, they were always distracted
But her brains they never could comprehend
Once the fire went viral
They wished they could call her a friend
They picked such an angelic foe
Yet kept her bound by tradition & canon & law
But you can never chain ideas down
Imprudence by the state was the final straw
Continual pandering as a cultural trait
Overwrought force; their idea as the solution
The spark still smoldering in her eyes
Never again the victim, she’s the whole damn revolution
*This is a reaction to rewatching the movie Cat Ballou with modern eyes.
The drippings of my mind
The office, a soul in paper mâché
Books & notes of imagination
A collection of stories we played
It’s a subtle knowledge herein
Years of experience slightly compressed
Nicks, faults & scars smoothed over
Though I remain unimpressed
Scratching away at this drivel
Nothing created in which to be content
Scrambling for fresh ideas
At this pace, I’ll never relent
Immune to a power surge
I sit alone & quietly type
Not affected by technology
Refuse to be your modern gripe
I switched off my terrestrial radio
But I’ll still pound at these keys
I’m not cool or a trendy guy
I’m reserved, doing as I please
There’s never been an audience
Just a few genuine folks
Sharing myself sparingly
I’m better with these slow strokes
I’ll continue to conjure ideas
Preferring to use my typewriter
Nothing fancy; just a love of words
Old, but I can still pull an all nighter
Ignore my fantastic ideas
For they come out in reams
Please close your eyes
Lest you believe in dreams
The voices come calling
Like shattered visitors in the night
Darkness expunged within thought
Auditioning words; trying to get it right
Vapid orations coming from the podium
Stacks of the wrong books & loose leaf notes
The dumbing down makes a tedious existence
But ideas are the traditional spark of an antidote
“An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.”
― Oscar Wilde
Captain Q 