E has been overworked for much of the last two months, but still he's found
some time to post here-- mish mash mostly. He hasn't seen, let alone heard from his muse for much of that time. Not a single poem written in almost two months, talk about dry spells!
But E has had other things flashing through his mind; images of canvas, fluid lines and rose madder. Wood, nails, tears and spears. Rough-hewn sketches of pain and lamentation... and hope.
E knows that the idea of 'hope' has been over-hyped and misnomered by rough political beasts on their slouching journeys toward Washington, pregnant with hate for traditional values, insistent upon allowing the unwashed unrestricted access to the killing of
their unborn, all the while eargerly pushing their own malorifically dark seeds into the light of day... unabashedly and unashamed. But E is also here to tell you that there is real hope left in the world; there is real light, which has never ceased to shine, yet remains, astoundingly, unseen to so many who believe hope is altogether lost.
Where is my muse? She is here; she never left my side. I have simply ignored her that I might please others who are less lovingly appreciative and understanding of the length and breadth of my many and several talents.
Ignore her and she'll sit quietly still-- she'll never leave --but ignore her too long and she will make you earn, by sweat and labor, the return of her good and graceful attentions. Her smile alone is enough to make a man fill great canvases with seed for untold others among the muse-led multitudes.
...who, though the few quips below are indeed shaded in hues of wisdom, was not necessarily a wise man. [disclaimer]
E has been overworked for much of the last two months, but still he's found some time to post here-- mish mash mostly. He hasn't seen, let alone heard from his muse for much of that time. Not a single poem written in almost two months, talk about dry spells!
