Muses Never Sleep

Funny where inspiration will rear its head (and nethers, as is often the case). I was sitting in a coffee shop, minding my own business, reading a wonderful book (Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan... go get y'self a copy). Amid the comforting din of coffee making sounds and background chatter, I heard strains of a country song. Sorry, I have no idea which one or who sings it. As I listened, the first words that came through to me were, "Who's at me..." In the context of the rest of the song, it was clear that I'd mis-heard. Even so, "who's at me" stuck. And struck a chord. Whenever I create, I feel like someone is  "at" me, picking through my stuff, staring over my shoulder, nodding approval or clucking disappointment -- in the vernacular of the present day, gettin' all up in my business. That'd be my muses -- they've got the energy of a toddler on nine hours of sleep and four espressos. And they're always "at" me.

So. From that, this...


Muses Never Sleep
who’s at me
peering into a
languid Sunday noon
sniffing wood smoke on
my lover’s hands
riding on a wave of murmurs

who’s at me
leaning into canvas
checking still wet paint
and crawling words
dancing to the beat of silence

who’s at me
wandering the foggy cedars
folding
unfolding
and refolding dreams
flitting through origami

who’s at me
prying at the edges
of grainy dreams
pushing, always pushing
the cart full of if
reaching for a handful
of trembling air

who’s at me
you constant
you ceaseless
you ever
you daring
bold, ethereal enigma
you, who’s at me

©Barb Black