The Poet and His Muse

by Thomas Piekarski
The Kiss of the Muse

Paul Cézanne, “The Kiss of the Muse” (circa 1860)

The Poet and His Muse

The poet stared down
from his station in ozone
above the Sierras, detected
her S.O.S. telepathically.

Recently awake from
an afternoon siesta, he felt
a little unclear, and woozy, yet
sure it was his muse in distress.

He consulted the cell phone
and read her text message,
news of Covid illness, as well
mysterious physical disability.

A bolt of alarm shot instantly like
a bullet straight through the brain.
Frantically he dialed her number
but the phone only rang and rang.

Perhaps some awful accident
had befallen her while teaching
Zumba or belly dance, she
possessor of distinctive talents.

Any injury limiting movement
would prove a disaster since
it is with performance her
magic tantalizes psyches.

He reflected on the many times
he swam oceans of her aqua eyes
in his favorite dreams, acting out
a respectable man of means.

Next morning he attempted dialing
her number once again. No luck.
But fortunately she phoned back, he
delighted to hear her sultry voice.

He’d explored Jupiter and Mars,
many an exoplanet, circled Uranus
and Pluto tucked under her wing
in his unbridled imagination.

To his sorrow and utter dismay
she provided details of the tragic day
when crushed in a head-on collision
she tiptoed at death’s stark doorstep.

His mind bounced like a pinball
to times he told her he yearned
to die in the arms of this angelic
indigenous Indian enchantress.

And now his beautiful beacon
of ecstasy and eternity waylaid,
almost helpless with broken legs,
arm, ribs and shattered ankle.

An entire month in the hospital
on her back, unable to move
a muscle without pain, and so far
eight more of rehabilitation.

His heart exploded with woe upon
every regretful description,
like how they used a torch to cut her
out of the demolished car.

Praise her levity when while sedated
and the nurse asked was it okay to
cut off her bloody clothes, she joked
that’s fine, I won’t be needing them.

He reminded her that she’d emerged
just at the time of his life when
he was drowning in loneliness
and she rescued him with her spirit.

Only a muse has such authority.
Only a muse can accomplish that.
With all she’s meant to his success
it’s no wonder why he loves her.

In his effort to console one so
destitute and in need of support
the poet urged his muse to hurry,
heal, discard the cane, the hurt.

“As soon as you’re able,” he pledged,
“I’ll be taking you to a seaside villa
west of Valhalla, east of heaven,
cruising aboard my crystal speedboat.

Only you and me as is meant,
sharing destinies, bound by fate,
emperor and empress of domains
separate yet one and the same.”


Public Transit

Tactile dream. Antipodal home. Night scream.
Preposterous ruse. Rapid prance. Partial truth.
Hangdog season. Lurid romance. Justice won.
Popular god. Word internalized. River crossed.
Time marginalized. Lonely soul. Life’s divine.
Payments late. Feeling weak. Treasury closed.
Anterior fear. Dread relapse. Squared spheres.
Last rights. Unified cause. Midnight dalliance.
Vehicle inert. Conscious effort. Distant world.
Patriotic chant. Fog recedes. Venus luminous.
Embryonic wind. Passive blood. Id tantalized.
Total recall. Projectiles attack. Doctor’s order.
Spatial collapse. Instantaneous rant. Acid rain.
Margins subverted. Balls afire. Wretched rule.
Love predominates. Lips fused. Demons hate.
Forest defrocked. Catapulting lions. Old rock.
Kinetic contact. Atomic rockets. Skin quivers.
Maybe sacred. Illusory conclusion. Hung jury.
Daylight saved. Violence retired. Peace wings.
Happening now. Telepathic wave. News flash.
Still yesterday. Capital idea. Inverse universe.
Sinister wisdom. Impotent nova. Hacked files.
Amphibious mouse. Cool vibes. Brain trained.
Slack outlook. Thriving pimp. Cancel culture.
Ominous stairway. Whirling fish. Bleak stare.
Species expired. Clocks break. Nerves shatter.
Insight delight. Mind pacified. Nature returns.
Hurricanes stir. Volcanoes roar. Oceans groan.


Love’s Labor

The citizens are loaded with remorse,
No longer able to define their course.
Misinformation amplifies regret,
Some media profane as it can get.
And so folk face grim solitude and vice
While battling a world of fire and ice.
Resigned to suffer this stark atmosphere
And saddled with a future most austere
The man without direction walks alone,
His anguish piercing all the way to bone.
So sad the story now that time has died,
Yet with almighty forces love’s allied.

About the author

Thomas Piekarski

Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in such publications as The Journal, Poetry Salzburg, Modern Literature, The Museum of Americana, South African Literary Journal, and Home Planet News. His books of poetry are Ballad of Billy the Kid, Monterey Bay Adventures, Mercurial World, and Aurora California.

© The Evening Universe, 2022-2024. All Rights Reserved.