Satisfaction

A poet’s comfort is in his work,
Happiness, creativity employs,
Other communications may shirk,
But pen in hand, spirit buoys.

Work merits deepest attention,
Takes shape with the speed of snail,
Concentration matches intention,
Meets finish with joyful wail,

Sigh with deep satisfaction,
Enjoy the fruits of endeavor,
But if long dwells inaction,
Contentedness mars “forever,”

For at signoff, emptiness may lurk,
Silently, to spread and grow.
Satisfaction marking end of work
Can strike Muse a heavy blow.

And if She deigns never return,
To shower her bright inspiration,
Or make the spirit wildly yearn —
Latent ink, dry precipitation.

…

I lowly moan in deepest despair,
My fate’s darkest path wander,
Find no words in thinnest of air,
Not here, nor there, nor yonder.

I stare at lexicon and tear my hair,
Pull at stars for a silver thread,
In anguish wish for even a nightmare,
To splash dark verse inside my head …

Oh, return to this soul, fickle Muse,
Deluge mind with songs that wing,
With pen in hand, let my spirit loose,
Noblest thoughts, fruition bring,

Set them to sing a chorus refrain,
Symphonious harmony of word,
Prismatic imagery each entrain
Rainbow flight, butterfly and bird,

Deftly across ink-adorned page,
Tinted flit, charm of golden voice.
So, Muse, as power I re-engage,
Words exported will be your choice.

As poetry flows from you to me,
In darkest storm or brightest sun,
I strive steadfast principle to be:
“Not too much — sa tis fak shun!”

© 2004 R. Leland Waldrip