Throwback Thursday- The Pulse of His Pen

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From the archives. Happy Thursday!

The Pulse of His Pen

Sometimes the poet
longs to be the muse
The vibrations of the
stars. The vibrations of
his stars, to flicker in
time with his celestial
tune.

Sometimes the poet
longs to be the
inspiration that flames
the fire. She longs
to be the embers’
point of view.

Sometimes the poet
wants to be his lavish
inner life, to drift just
for awhile in a green
expanse that only he
has the deed to.

Sometimes the poet
desires to be the
lightening threading
the darkness in his
head. The language
he explores in a
notebook that taste
like longing, to be the
alphabet of atoms he
breathe in as he sits
at a moonlit desk.
To be remembered,
not a reminder.

Sometimes the poet
wants to be the pulse
behind his pen, the
words he uses in
excess, beating out
onto paper, his living
obsession.

The grandiose of his
emphatic vision. The
glistening black ink
revealing secrets
like unrepentant lovers.

Sometimes the poet
longs to be the muse.
The arrow wound in
his vascular organ.
The sugar in his
parietal lobe.

The holy ghost that
punctuates his sentences
The promises of rapture.
The poem he’s afraid to
write, but writes any way.

Sometimes the poet
wants to be the muse
tilting her head
provocatively, making
a place for him in the
cleavage of her chest
She wants her lips to
taste his syllables,
to feel his noun slipping
inside her body.
His verbs penetrating
her core. His adjectives
addicted to the beauty,
the softness of her skin.
No questions marks.

Sometimes the poet
longs to be the dream,
the fever. The flag he
plants from woven silk
he’s spun.

Sometimes the poet
longs to be the muse,
the vibrations in his
aesthetic sky.

The morning stars
singing notes of praise
and renewal. Notes
that rise over melting
snow, on the fringe
of the green part of
the forest.

Awakening spirits and
the quicksilver breeze
of spring .

Sometimes the poet
longs to be the muse
but get lost in her own
verse instead.

-Tosha Michelle

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64 thoughts on “Throwback Thursday- The Pulse of His Pen

  1. Beautifully rendered once again. Unfortunately for me, it’s the arrow throw the vascular organ that tends to get the black ink glistening and flowing once again. I truly wish that I could write something worthwhile when I’m in a non-wounded state.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. D.S.

    Oh, Tosha, this is wonderful … and wonderfully HOT! 🙂
    Love the idea of the poet becoming the muse, and I suppose vice versa.
    Lovely play of language.
    Hope you’re feeling so much better today!

    Like

      1. D.S.

        I love those “gifts” that come along ever now and then. Beautiful sunny day in the Midwest. So glad to hear you’re feeling better! Enjoy your Sunday, 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

  3. The poet the muse!

    Images rise
    onto blanc pages
    words written
    in consecutive
    rhythmic sequences
    eyes swing left to right
    remembering
    the ink spilled
    blood red
    from pierced veins
    that wanted to be loved
    read
    heard
    embrace its reader
    warm the heart
    move every muscle
    longing to praise
    the muse in front of him.
    Giving
    receiving
    emotions
    uncalled
    in an attempt
    to smudge
    colour
    this box with letters
    and come alive
    to dance
    seep into the eyes
    and burn on to a soul
    Speak in silence
    and flicker that flame
    with gratitude
    in front of the poet
    that just became
    a muse.
    Please keep on writing.

    ©Ranting Crow

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Pingback: The Poet, The Muse! | Ranting Crow

  5. jacobemet

    This: ” the
    lightening threading
    the darkness”
    And this: “The
    glistening black ink
    revealing secrets
    like unrepentant lovers.”
    Then this: ” The poem he’s afraid to
    write, but writes any way.”
    Fuck it, I’m gonna rip this piece from your collection and hide it in the notebook of my inspired heart. High – fucking – five.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Bonsoir TOSHA je viens t’offrir
    La fleur de L’amitié prends en soin
    L’amitié à une grande place dans la vie
    A toi de la garder
    Certaines places sont cassables
    Mais une amitié fidèle ne peut pas se briser
    Alors donnons nous la main
    Belle soirée , bises , Bernard
    Belle fin de semaine

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Lovely write Tosha and very true for many of us female poets. We have our own muses and like the idea of being a muse ourselves. Somehow most of the time we work across purposes but it’s not so bad after all because that is a source for inspiration and the story goes on, unending, limitless..

    Liked by 1 person

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