The Muse Withholding

a very fine one you’ve picked there brother John
who ties the tongue like winter holds the seed
yet aware the beating there within
with rhythm of the ages sages it only takes
three wisdoms patience of the waiting
waiting the howling calm of the wind
tick tock three o’clock all tis at the well
music train clef’s then flats
Tipperary is not too much further now
and Tripoli has doubled in the past
cards are shuffled waiting for the deal
what is dreaming who is now awake
remember then
“It’s best to not take one’s self too seriously.”

of course my subject is my losing or more succinct
never truly knowing surely perhaps
once shedding discipline it is remarkable
the search for that which is most valued
changing muses in the stumbling along
of course lives are fraught with imperfection
full of denials and rejection

i try and i try but i
still hold remnants of the Vatican Rag
the “I’m not worthy will never be”
worthy of what and to whom i say
you priestly priest who scolds me not to think
or the false hearted friend who condemns my habit
while indulging his because it is manly

the fingers in the dark find f and g
paused like the eyes in candle light
to the silence between the in and out
will there be a 4:44 o’clock
between the tock find either you or i
after the tick is :41
most likely there will be a next tear drop to fall
she’s here :42
the walking stick is handy in the parlor
:43 one howling wind returns
. . . . . . … .. .. . . . . . . . .
4:44 a.m.