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There happen upon we writers times when we crave the presence of our muse, yet visitation appears forbidden. Frustrating days (or nights) spring forth from these unfortunate battles of desire versus reality.

I lay here on my couch in a midnight muse-hunt. My mind demands I reach far beyond the confines of land and sea. My heart likes the idea as well, yet some spark refuses to fire. Some catalyst balks at manifesting its destiny. Some muse decides to take the night off.

My experience whispers, ever so soft, that the muse cannot resist tiptoeing into an ongoing writing narrative. All I must do is perform the act of writing with purpose and desire to create and the muse will show up.

Seriously, 12:18am and I know sleep demands its respite. I know my day tomorrow (technically today) looms loaded with work fast approaching past-due status. Yet my desire remains to create. To write. To bleed the passion disallowed me in my life at this time.

Therefore, my off-the-midnight-cuff poem follows:

Touch of Her Smile


Dream of sweet smiles and happier days

Glance east in the mind and winnow out the ways

Words travel through heart and sinew and bone

Traverse networks, digital highways, headed for home


Home, nestled gentle and kind in a breast

Heart huge as existence which finds no true rest

Longs for the passion which simmers love slow

Stretches for connection only two may know.


Crave the gloomy day which follows her steps

Vain searches for the sullen breeze that brushes her lips

Overcast thoughts and precipitous dreams

My search for her heart falls short of its means


The ways in which emotion reaches deep in the night

Midnight connections relinquish our sight

To mere conjecture, pleadings, and words spilt in rhyme,

Hopes, dreams, feather touches, precious spent time.


Reach. Reach. Strive for her heart!

Flail at midnight’s darker, sinister part

In this play of our lives, our breaths and desires

Our passions laid out in eternity’s pyres.


Will the day come when eyes meet for real?

Will the walls crumble and rust consume their steel?

Or will fate never deliver the reprieve know to man

A simple touch of her smile, a supple wave of her hand.