The Gardener ~ A Repost

She smiled and sang to him in a teasing lilt, “And if my lips were honeysuckle, would you be my honeybee?”

He was a thoughtful man, inclined to take his time
Studying carefully, planning meticulously
What seeds to sow, what would reward his care

He spent time working the soil, tending his plants
On hands and knees, letting his thoughts drift
Sometimes in the sunshine, sometimes in the rain

He surveyed his handiwork, admiring the colour
Rejoicing in his labours, tending to the weeds
Always he worked with love, always he was rewarded

He had a way with the thorny rose, and the exotic orchid
Blowsy peonies and showy lilies, all responded to his care
A perfect place to grow, a perfect place of repose

He hadn’t noticed the wild primrose, among the cultivated
A gentle presence, growing quietly in his leftover attention
Blooming only in the night, blooming with the hope he’d notice

He would sit in the evenings on his swing, thoughts adrift
Watching the dusk come down, dreaming of a hand in his
Catching a wisp of fragrance, catching a glimmer of her

He sometimes fell asleep there, laying his weary head down
Closer to wee primrose, nestled at the edge of his garden
Glowing in the night for him, glowing to tell him he was loved

~kei, 16 June 2012 ~ Original Post here

One must look in order to see ~ kei

One must look in order to see
~ kei

Relinquished Muse

For sale or rent:

One slightly damaged Muse
Has very few qualifications for the title really
Misrepresented credentials under the guise of a smile

Rather lazy
Lounges around Sundays, napping, watching hockey or writing haiku rather than Musing for you
Well of course. They’re so easy to write. Properly. Leafs suck.

Unlikely to inspire passionate prose
Will slip into one of your button downs scented with the night before
Far more often than Victoria’s unmentionables and scarlet spandex… whatever that shit is

Aggravating and artsy
Might show up for dinner in a 1950’s gown and Converse high tops
Can’t decide between Monet exhibits and Mötley Crüe

Always wanting sex at the most inconvenient times
Knocking over typewriters, glasses, totally distracting you from your opus

Very unprofessional
Prone to fits of giggling during home office hours
Often writes poetry with purple and turquoise markers and prose with a dinosaur-topped pencil

Not to be trusted in a stationery shop
Spends grocery money on pretty writing journals and… eww… lined copy books
Has been caught nibbling erasers

Not as moneyed as other pudgy, frowsy, menopausal Muses
But not yet overdrawn on inspiration and dreams. She’s banked a million
Far too proud of the fact she can’t be bought

Willful and spiteful
See reference above to the doughy, ham-fisted, so called competition, hack
Damn it! She did it again… See? Spiteful…

Way too alpha for the average poet or writer
Don’t even think of consulting with another Muse! Ask me, I know
A) She’ll have your balls for bookends B) See reference above… again

Broke as dirt. Won’t be able to keep you in palatial oceanside abodes
Better tales are written though, in the warmth of a cozy boÎte
And of eating mac ‘n cheese cooked in a fondue pot

Use of adjectives, alliteration and allegory will drive you apeshit
Literary taste runs from Dostoyevsky to Nancy Drew
Curses like a lumberjack during episodes of writer’s block

Who the hell does she think she is anyway?
You can see how much I’ve had to put up with!

No references available
Was a huge disappointment to previous poetical patron
Too much temper, fire and passion. Not enough… sock darning or something

Easily fixed with cut and paste, find and replace
Substitute a Muse that’s more to your taste
Never to shake the indelible bruises of longing she’ll leave on your brain

Gotta kijiji this before I change my mind
She’s a fey and fanciful muse, cantankerous, contrary and flawed
But oh! The stories she has for you

~ kei
14 October 2013