Poetry My Muse

"There will never be a truer reflection of My Soul,
than this, for herein lies my being"

Poetry My Muse!
Verses, Rhymes, Thy Truth,
has come to speak with me again,
as he does every, Now and Then.
And as usual it is the music
which brings Thy words to be.
Some are given freely,
while others are torn
from these depths inside of me.
The spirit, none can see.
This Something, I call poetry.

But,
It is Thy music which
brings me to the heights,
moves me, as it soothes me, raises me
to where heavens stars are shining bright
and I touch them with great care.

Yet,
If only I could play these notes,
spilling all about, Thy words,
Surrounding me with melodies
that only I have heard.

Sweet symphonies
played against the backdrops
of the canvases, I see.
Painted in wondrous, watercolors,
bits of sky and sea,
chalks and hues of ecstasy.
And yet, my canvases like these melodies,
can never come to be,
will never spill from me.

For all I ever render are these words
you've given me
All else is never reflected back
hidden in my cloak,
of indigo and lack.
The deepest dark, I know.
For they too, are lost in me
with all the colors of the sea.
And the wondrous blues of the beyond
amidst those stars we wish upon.
Lavender blues, and Aqua greens
the finest yet, of oils, linens, scenes
all these colors dancing in-between.
Colors of the soul.

Yes,
If only I could sing!
If only I could bring
Thy music to the winds,
to live with Thy poetry
as it was meant to be,
along with these portraits,
scenes inside of me.

But, alas, they smother too and die.
They drown to make no sound and no reply.
This yearning turns to great despair.
I am lying, crying, dying here
in want, in need, in loss.
The heartache of all of This.
I cannot ever do.

Now,
My shattered soul, remains,
though it still contains
all these shards of stained
and broken glass breaking yet,
Again!
And still splintering once more.
Till these splinters of the soul,
these thoughts, thrashing,
out of control are drenched in
hidden feelings felt,
and have knelt to Thee.
Then They and I cry out.
Yet,
I wonder, and I cry,
tears streaming down these eyes.
Everything is woven, there,
into the mirrors of my soul.
Sketched into them,
lacey breaths around the
whole,
traces of your time, spilt,
like those once bottled inks of mine.
Written here, in poetry, prose and rhyme.

Yes, All my truths are here,
in the quaking and the quell,
with this ever re-awakening fear as well.
Fear it shall all have been for naught
these poems, me, these thoughts,
and yet, still the greater fear.
The fear I cannot find the Word.
The words, they are all of me
and yet, none of them will ever do, you see.
My own self imposed Purgatory.

I quiver and I tremble
with these breaths of need and want.
This soul searching,
heart wrenching uncertainty,
reaching out for Thee
and yet, that's its,
struggle for your heights,
it's very ecstasy!

Poetry My Muse!
Tapestries are woven with this truth
mere words cannot convey these depths
these tears I've wept and swept away.
For words are empty things,
these threads of beginnings and endings
mere shadows, shallow epitaphs,
given, written, lost and gone though spoken.
They are never truly heard without your song!

It is an agony, a sweet sadness all of this,
this that I can never tell.
For just As I can neither etch nor draw
the watercolors here surrounding me,
nor the notes lost in their pastels.
They disappear.

Ah! When pastels are veiled in frost.
They show both sides of heaven and the cross.

These canvases, unique and unto me,
they be both the rarity
and breadth of my soul seeking,
in its depths to find it's very breath.
Why there is no portrait, and no landscape created
that can compare with the voices whispering there,
singing with silvery notes what only God has played,
On harps and xylophones he has breathed
His very life into They and me.

Poetry My Muse!
Where Art, Thy Music of the Heart,
with still so much wanting to be said
like the flutters of our souls as we try to reach
and grasp for the like,
wherever it may be
the depths of each other's, mystery.

We are alone but yearn as one
all we spirits to become,
Thy Spirit which art the One.

Maybe Heaven is just this,
Art, Music , Word, And Kiss.

Oh! Poetry, My Muse!
This ringing, singing trilogy,
of joy and love, sweet, peace.
Tied up and wrapped in these robes
of this exquisite agony....
And yet, it's other side, great ecstasy.
These feelings flying away and fast from me
tears run down my face,

I thank thee, MY GOD, for giving me this,
this brush, these words, 'tis Heavens kiss.
Is all of this.
And yet, dare I ask, why it is not enough for me,
I yearn to speak in all Your Loveliness,
Your Arts.

I should not grieve nor want for more
as I take my pen in hand
and let the words come rushing out, spilling all about.

This song is all of me, such sweet agony
As I reach within to find what's hidden there,
meant never to be shared,
least it shudder and it die
when brought before the world's
mindful, watching, prying often too,
denying eye.

I try to find the words for this feeling that I have
and yet, Poetry My Muse!
You art the closest thing to ecstasy,
this Believing, see,
for all I am or will ever be,
is entwined in these words
you have given, shared with me.
Spirituality, is all I truly be,
with this great and wondrous ache,
which I can neither give up nor ever quite forsake.
For I must try again, again, again to say,
to find, to speak, the perfect word,
the paint brush to draw what I have both loved and heard.

Poetry My Muse!
I both thank and kneel to you.
Sweet Ecstasy is this,
both the sadness and the wonder of
The Poet's kiss,
My God I thank you for it all,
for All Poetry Art Thine,
though I speak not in proper verses,
prose
nor
Iambic pentameters of time.

It is all and yet, it is not best.
But I hope it 'Tis no less,
beautiful in your eyes
than all those artists
with their exquisite paints,
the composers with their scores
or the poets who know better languages than I.

For they could not love you more,
My God than I.

Poetry My Muse, looking through me,
coming to me, I sing for you,
only and always for you
with God's eyes of both indigo and blue.

God I sing these words for You,
for all this poetry Is You!
As is everything I am
or everything I will ever be, or ever do.

June 1, 1999
LadyLaMythica

By Lady LaMythica, Linda A. Copp © All rights reserved World Wide
including but not limited to 1972-2015

The midi, "Awaiting", you hear here, was composed and performed by Jackson Ng