My Muse is a slave-driver

My Muse of Poetry

is a real slave-driver, she’s a ball-breaker,

she’s a chainsaw-massacre, breathing down my neck.

My Muse

thinks she is both the bullseye and the target.

She whispers nonsense into my ears,

until there is nothing else

I can even hear-except the drone,

of a rambling ancient old Crone.

My Muse of Poetry,

is a real slave-driver, she’s a ball-breaker,

she’s a chain-saw massacre, breathing down my neck.

And I cannot hold anything against her.

Inspiration, however random is still

something akin

to the answers of a prayer.

Without my Muse,

I am nothing more than a

babbling fool.

Poetry-this writing Life,

it eats the good ones first,

then the young ones,

folks like me she leaves for dessert

a mushy mess of a chocolate brownie

a mushy mess of a middle-old aged woman

a clown, who never properly learned

the art and skill

of juggling.

My Muse, is a slave-driver.

My Muse of Poetry

is a real slave-driver, she’s a ball-breaker,

she’s a chainsaw-massacre, breathing down my neck.

Running on E

Running on E,

Empty, my thoughts have

decided to run away,

they flee free me.

 

Running on E,

I let the empty get the best 

of Me. I reach out-

towards the empty sky,

not a cloud in sight.

 

Running on E,

Grabbing outwards for the 

poetry. To take a hold of Me.

But too much everything equates

a void.

 

Running on E,

but I digress.

Where did I misplace the Lioness?

Where did I misplace the Poetess?

 

Running on E,

nothing comes very easy.

The thoughts all roll right out of my brain,

catching like embers burning into fire,

as the free-verse falls down.

 

Running on E,

a hapless clown.

How to quench this thirst,

of creating something out of

nothing?

 

Running on E,

it leaves me screaming-

so loud- my lips leave no sound.

The words all blocked up,

a corked up wine bottle.

 

Running on E,

the empty sound of silence,

What is left to say?

Where do the poem-words take you,

Anyway?

 

Empty, Empty, Empty,

and then like Humpty Dupty,

We All fall down.

Falling down again.

With a crash.

Titanium

I have been listening to this song a lot lately. My husband likes to watch mtv2 and this video comes on alot.It is a pretty fabolously strange video.

I wrote a poem after listening to this song far too many times perhaps. The poem of course has barely anything at all to do with the song…Life is like that sometimes. I will share the poem in my next post. Just give me like five min.

wet paint

wet paint

warning “do not touch”

If i could paint you a picture,

of all the fantastical thoughts and emotions,

I could muster…

a lot of the imagery would be,

colorful, bright and happy,

while in the corners,

would lurk the dirty, the “maybe” moments,

the undecided bits, and pieces,

of my Oh, so cluttered mind’s hazy eye.

Be oh, so careful, do not sit down,

wet paint is all around,

do not touch this,

finger-paint mess,

of indecisivenessImage.

desire to draw

a desire stirs my soul. it is something, silent, singular an urge, i cannot stop. it flutters and dances in my chest, by me heart. a desire to draw. to create more art. i do not even feel like doing it, this thing, called creation.

I got bite by the envy bug.
A art therapist friend of mine, posted,
a beautiful, color pencil drawing,
she did onto, facebook.

Years, before I became a painter-
drawing was all i did.
I drew everything and anything and,
all the spots in-between-

I really have not drawn anything lately.
But thinking both,
about her drawing, and
this poem i started to write,
I did decide,

to try to draw,
something anything, at all,
no matter how big,
or how small.

There was just this urgency,
this urge, this desire, to draw.
It grabbed hold of me,
and refused to release me.

It was a spark,
of a desire, rather,
than a spark of imagination,
yet starely at the blank page,

I just jumped into the pool,
head first diving into
the deep end,
in other words, i just started to draw.

i began.

Winter Trees

Old Goache painting on illustration board

Winter Trees-E.H.Cato 1997

I’ve been thinking about making more art again lately. It always seems to make me feel guilty, when i am not making any-as if creating art was like feeding the family pet goldfish-and i keep forgetting and that poor little fish is going to give up and drop dead-die soon. All because I cannot remember to feed him. That is how i feel about my artwork or lack there of, as if its this poor starving creature depending on me for its survival. How can an Artist truly say, that there are more important things to do today than art? I feel like a sham. I know realistically i am not the greatest artist ever, but even i have to admit i do have above average talent at it. I am just lazy as hell. It’s hard to get motivated sometimes. And it’s eaiser sometimes to write than to draw because writing is like bleeding to me, the words just seep out. Painting actually requires thinking although not as much as you would assume. In front of a blank canvas i am the monkey with the banana as a trick to get me to drip, paint and create my way into something slightly artistic.Feeling much like a monkey today, have you seen my banana?

Ghost writer/Muse

writes for dirt cheap,

writes for dirt cheap,

My lucky little blacked haired honey,
does not work for no money.
She types for free, and performs mandatory spell-check by
rubbing her entire head even her ears in between my fingers which are busy-
doing everything they can to escape her every wish and demand.

This is my new IT computer tech. She’s new-almost 9 months old,
she is also getting huge.
She is beautiful beyond belief,
but only when she wants to be.
One of her worst habits is the chewing of mail.
but nobody is perfect.
my little muse, my black haired ghost writer with the furry tail.