Poems, muse, and the unconscious

Here's a short poem that I would like to offer all the poets out there and to our most treasure muses...


When the Muses Left


A lonely poem waited at the gate

Of all the unsung songs, 

Anxious to be written

Like a motherless baby, wanting to be born.


And sonnets silent on the rustling leaves

Remain unseen, wet, and clear like morning dew,

Yet beauty, truth and self expression

Call out for things anew.


The anxious man inside cried out 

But sang without a sound,

Only dust like tumbleweed and shadow dancers moved about

Whilst unborn thoughts stayed empty, silent, bound.


With sisters three or nine, yet not a Goddess can be found  

Not Mneme, Melete, not Aoide was seen or heard this day,

Perhaps it’s that I haven’t lived

Or have nothing left to say.


-M.P. Tinghitella

December 2010

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  • Michael, 

    This reaches in deep and stirs things, slowly forming feelings that inform heart its been touched.  Thank you for posting. 

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