Poetry Art, the Child

Aside

Poetry , Art the Child

There is a quiet
And exhilarating joy
In poetry or art ,
like a child
born and raised
on page or canvas
waiting to be engaged ,
appreciated ,
waiting to delight ,
to commit
and reflect the
viewer , the reader,
to occupy their mind .
Poetry , art
Is like a child
whose company
is precious
to enjoy ,
and to delight in.
It gives us joy
and a single parting
taste
of the fleeting sweetness
That is life .

From “Eyes of the Artist ” by PWChaltas

 

All the Muses have Left

All the Muses have Left

All the muses have left
me .
They’ve been
gone for a while ,
perhaps even longer .
Don’t know where they go,
when they suddenly travel .
It’s just their style .
to suddenly leave .
Are they
in The south of France
or gone en vacances
to Kuwai, or Hawaii ?
Maybe they’re at
work in some
street city ghetto
or have travelled to China
or even Dubai  ?
All I know is
they’ve left me
as cold  as a fish
without even as much
as a parting goodbye .
They do  that  sometimes.
They know
that I don’t take offense ,
that I wouldn’t mark
a single line
till they’re back
in my corner
drilling
circling
In defense
of the word or
of any line
that they drop
on my heart
or slip into soul  .
This is just a note
: Wishing you were
here.