Poem: Mischievous Muse

Mischievous Muse

The pigments are lined up in a row.
A bottle of oil awaits. A brush.
The palette, with it’s first choices, awaits.

They wait for you.
Still in the morning light.
The perfect light. Paralyzed with uncertainty.

What to paint? How?
Where to place the first line?
The first color?

For the first line sets the tone.
Triggers your mind and sets it aflight,
magic in the fingers

For the first line sets the tone.
Misplaced. Out of sorts. Never able
to catch the angel.

You lift your brush. You shut your eyes
and pray to a muse that is not your own,
not exactly.

She is a mischievous little thing.
as fond of mess as masterpiece.
And you are merely her servant.

About this poem

I am sitting at my favorite diner beginning work on my sermon. I haven’t a clue where I am going with it. All my work. All my training. All my education. And I have to depend on the holy spirit, my Saturday muse, to get me there. Pretty much the story of my life. Sermons. Poetry. Paintings.

The picture was take at the Russian Icon Museum, in Clinton, Mass. I love that place. Special shout out to Topazlabs software who make the software that saved this image from a fatal blurriness.


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