Friday, February 7, 2014
My muse is a heart hunter, her bow arched readily,
her arrow point dabbed with a gossamer glint
the color of spirit.
I am her target and, emboldened with time,
I confront her with soul-fire and fear-ashes,
stomach knots and eye-stars.
Sky and trees are tossed by the air,
green-shuffled and blue-shifted in a windblown vertigo,
the sunset on my neck-nape.
I spy, with delight,
ten thousand wren-wings of a migrating flock,
their nerves fraught with dusk-twitter.
Twilight nestles against slumbering petals,
their flower-souls folded in and dreaming.
I wave my white handkerchief.
Seizing her moment, my muse bends an arrow back
and releases, our eyes locked.
My ears hear the whistling sound the arrow makes
as it soars through the air to my lung-cage,
hitting its target dead center, heart-tender.
© Sherri Brannon 2014
I find that poetry comes to me easier in the wintertime...there's less distraction, less color, less external activities. I'm more contemplative, quieter...there's a stillness present that isn't there in the bustle of spring, summer, or fall. This is a poem I've been working on for the last couple of weeks. I never know when I'm going to get "hit" with the sudden need to write. It was fun to think of my muse as a hunter with her bow and arrow.
My photo was edited using Radlab - I like the dreamy effect I was able to get. And through the wonders of Photoshop, I was able to add a flock of birds by finding an image at Flickr Creative Commons and adding it in as a separate layer.
Thank you for stopping by!
It just happens to be the way that I’m made. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them. ~Haruki Murakami