Poetry decompresses emotions. Poetry snatches that tight ball of passion and unravels the splintered trails into a heart-map. Good poetry whisks the reader on a journey of interpretation, relation, and resonance.
“The mood” directs the fingers when poetry’s muse stalks a writer’s inner corridors. This ‘mood’ comes and goes at the will and resource of nebulousness. Like the ocean’s raging wave a surfer rides for mere moments, the muse’s steps aligning with the writer’s often parallel for snippets of time, leaving the writer to scramble to collect all that washed over him.
My muse tapped me on the heart and whispered, “Write to her. Take the title, Let Me Dream of You. Create something special from it. Lend her the smile she so freely lends you.”
Therefore, today’s off-the-heart poem courtesy of a kind and gentle muse…
Let Me Dream of You
Walk with me barefoot by the sea,
Ocean breezes rippling your long, dark hair.
Talk with me in the hushed and gentle tones of lovers
Wan smiles slipping across your lovely evening eyes.
Arm in arm, let’s crunch through mountain autumn leaves
Warmth, the glances and pauses between sighs.
Soul in soul, we wend our lazy way through the mysteries of life
Comfort, the hands sporting intertwined fingers.
Lie with me behind the crackling fires of winter
Toes red and toasted while snow-filled winds howl.
Kiss, soft, velvet petals mere breaths apart
Electrified shock waves to sparkle the mind.
Glow, spring’s beauty paled in your wake
Flowers bowing to magnificent radiance
Embrace, eyes pools of ever-sweet knowledge
Defined in love and awash in joyous camaraderie.
Walk with me, let me dream of you
If only in our hearts, barefoot to the sands of time.
Talk with me, ethereal conversations to free the fears,
Let me dream of you and revel in your lovely smile.
Interesting that the muse stuck around to the end to ensure I captured the essence and flow of the emotion. I suppose this could all sound a bit off, not right, demented even. Isn’t that the feeling a writer deals with after laying bare his heart? Especially when he takes the time to narrate the experience of the writing?
Such a vulnerable place to walk, especially knowing you’re going to post no matter what… A day once lived when I would never dare to publish such inner expressions – even now unnamed fears whisper to strike ‘delete’. Again, the somewhat unbalanced mind of a writer.
Books by Michael Ray King