BEYOND THE MUSE (Autumn Equinox)

Ancient Muses
Paired for every
Art and Science
I prefer to see
A hovering shadow
Like the tarot’s
The Poet and her Lover
The Muse of Ideas
While above the deuce
An Angel of Wisdom
That some call Athena
Roiling clouds of creation
Inspiring one line
Enabling the poet’s thoughts
To morph from beauty
Or humor
Or memory
Encouraging the poet’s soul
To share wise words
A secret of life
A reverberation
Through the ages
Longingly I wait
For the rare perception
To align the poem into
Perfect harmony
Celestial equator
Intersecting the ecliptic
Possible on this day
Of Equinoxing …

(c) 2018 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: The Lovers, Pamela Colman Smith


Is there a rule about the amount of
Healing words sent to the aethers
Are they to be measured by a spoon
Like a prescription:
Take three times a day
Or can we utter them
Like a prayer
Or a favorite song
That just won’t leave the mind
No, no rule
Once is never enough
When sending good thoughts
A sparkling beauty of a jewel
To heal our friends and family…

(c) Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Into the Aethers



Hints tossed into the air

Where they land, you don’t care

You challenge me

Flinging your metal gauntlet

Floating, no gravity

Where is the anchor

Of sincerity

Meaningless sarcasm

Empty invitation

Ego an exploding

Bubble of noxious gas

If I accept

You can claim

My misunderstanding

Of your words

Silent in the void

Of space

Where all promises die

In an airless universe

Folding upon itself

Stop issuing meaningless demands

A source of intellectual enjoyment to you

But just another lie echoing

Garbled in space

Strangling my heart…


© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: cold space/dailywallpaper.com


Lying in bed

Holding a notebook and pen

On my breasts

Darkness so restful

Almost asleep

Glanced down, seeing myself

Might be a corpse

In a box

Bible between waxen hands

Maybe for my cremation

I should mention in my will

Please place a blank notebook

And a BIC CL I CK fine point pen

(Or wait, maybe a black gel rollerball)

In my still fingers

In case I arise

And need to write a poem

About the end …

Or beginning?

(C) 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)


What power have words

That they linger long after

The utterer dies?

Taking hold of a paper

Or a virtual page

Or grasping the very air

Like talons stuck in the fabric of

A collection of gases.

Since words echo through time

Curses must also

Even if the curser dies

Yet, if life changes for the better

Can it be? Did the curse expire too?

Or did we wander into a parallel universe?

Maybe we are really catatonic, in a padded cell

But living a fantasy life of love and perfection

Dreaming our microcosm?

The nature of reality

Is deplorably confusing

Perhaps that is why we should not be fearful

Should just follow our heart

Bravely do what we are meant to do

Toughen our skins and ASK for what we want

Do, and if it doesn’t work

Do again

Until it becomes a living dream.

(It doesn’t matter if you ask for something impossible

But try not to let it matter if you don’t get it)

© 2014 ViataMaja, Poezija