Elizabeth Nardo
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Dec ’24
You drift in and out of my mind's eye, A beauty with no compare. The height of feminine grace, Made of smoke and silken dreams, You giggle and tease, Pointing at my blank page. I reach for you, but you are but smoke and dreams, Unformed thoughts on the air. Come sit with me upon the blank page, Give me a kiss, a spark So I can weave a tale.
Dec ’24
The red coffee cup sits on my desk, The ashtray next to it. A pen case full of various kinds, A box of Blackwing pencils, A two-stage sharpener. Smoke rises from the ashtray. In comes the Muse, Made of smoke and silken dreams. She dances and mixes with the Smoke of my cigarette. She plays among the items on my desk, Saying, "Write, silly girl, write!" I light a candle and scribble words. My Muse jumps away at the last minute As I tear the page and throw it away. She looked less than happy. But I start again, And this is the tale I weave As she smiles, pleased.
Dec ’24
The smoke dances as thread Upon the glowing end of the incense. The scent weaves a tale upon the air. Soft music; the Dead play "Sugar Magnolia." I sit with coffee and cigarettes And look at the blank page. My Muse hides and giggles at me. I beg and plead for her to come sit with me, But she declines with a smile. So I say, "Very well, how about twenty questions?" She answers all with a grin, Just the facts, no more. I pout and sip my coffee. She laughs and asks, "Why so serious?" "How about strip poker?" I look at my body and say, "No." "Oh, do you have a secret to share?" I lower my head and say nothing. "Okay, okay, why don't we slip on peasant skirts and pass a joint? We haven't done that in a couple of decades." I answer with, "Can we just talk and pour out my pain and doubts?" We hug and cry in a warm embrace. I am filled with euphoric love and heavenly bliss, And I take pen to paper and begin to write.
Jan ’25
The Muse dances around my room, Made of smoke and silken dreams, Vaulting on my coffee cup, Stealing my pencil, Charging like a knight jousting At the smoke of my cigarette, Riding a red swing-line stapler. Before coming home to rest Upon the blank page, Giggling, posing, and seducing, Her legs crossed, a mischievous Smile upon her face, Ready to work and weave a tale.
Jan ’25
My muse played hooky today, So I sit with a blank page and no tale to weave. The words are jammed up; The pencils, all broken. Even the paper seems to be running away. This goal, challenge, or well, curse — To write each and every day, Hangs like an albatross around my neck, Like a sailor lost in the doldrums. I try word association: Blank, bland, nothing. Just meaningless words upon a blank page. Maybe some TV or music, A word or a phrase overheard, Will spark something, anything. So I sharpen my pencils and wait.