A Fairy Tale Poet’s Muse

6:00 a.m. — Awakened to a brand new day with no idea in mind, the poet found himself in bed in the sorry state of disgust. His selfish muse, the creator of novel notions, had kept her jewels to herself overnight once again. Wishing he could do without her, but lacking the required skills, his frustration arose with the sun. A sense of loathing for the fickle fairy of creativity had enclosed him like a blanket. In bed he stayed, in spite of the tasks the day had set before him.

8:00 a.m. — Tossing and turning with a butt-full of bedbugs, the poet soon discovered that his disgust for the wench had waned, and had since been replaced by another stubborn perception, for now he thoroughly despised her. He decided to keep his distance, and work around her majesty. Uncovering his head, he got up and out of bed, steaming. The wordsmith couldn’t help but to notice the blank sheet of paper on his nightstand. Having nothing to hang his hat on, he began to lose his temper, and hastily chose to forgo breakfast.

10:00 a.m. rolled around, and by then he’d gone completely mad. Allowing his anger to get the best of him, he stewed in his own boiling pot with thoughts of a vengeful nature. Quite suddenly, the wretched man went berserk until his usually tidy room was a wreck, all thanks to a massive amount of uncontrollable shaking and grumbling. In shock, he stopped and fell back into his normal state of awareness. A quick survey of the disarray alerted him to the facts. Due to his fitful and furious display, everything that meant the world to him was in tatters.

12:00 p.m. — When the clock struck twelve, he was as low as one can go, and felt utterly ashamed of himself. The shrinking man’s guilt had become so overwhelming, he couldn’t eat his lunch. Tear after tear dropped into his cup of cold soup. He begged the muse’s forgiveness, but no reply came forth to ease his pain. Bemoaning his numerous faults, he crawled back into the hole from whence he came, his bed, and commenced to counting many a lost sheep.

2:00 p.m. — Having withdrawn himself from the realm of high society, the poet agonized o’er his innate stupidity, and started a derogatory self-examination. No longer blaming the muse for his mistakes, past or present, his guilty conscience began a review of all the time he’d wasted in a half-hazard way. Glancing once again at the pearly piece of paper, and still at a loss for words, he could find not one good reason to get up. On the contrary, he quite easily found several reasons to end his own existence, but then it dawned on him. When he saw the light it occurred to him that he was simply too lazy to take on such a momentous task as suicide implies.

4:00 p.m. — After two hours of trying to bore himself to death, he decided it wasn’t worth the effort, and gave up. Consequently, once he’d surrendered the cause, he came to realize just how naturally lazy he was. Comfortably relaxed, and bored stiff, but not dead, the poet passively resisted the temptation to strike up a conversation with his goddess of inspiration. Having been the only witness to the day’s shenanigans, he decided to do the only thing left to do during this down-time, namely, take pleasure in extending his hard-earned recess.

6:00 p.m. — Although the famished writer was literarily starving, he was also hungry, literally, so he allowed himself to break bread and eat. Of course, seeking the pleasures of the flesh is a matter of taste, and without an over amount of undo persuasion, he talked his better self into having an ice-cold beverage. Wishing to spread the wealth of this newfound happiness, he smiled and shared the cool bubbly with his favorite mug. Shortly thereafter, he began to envy his muse. Oh, that he could be more like her, and less like his drunken brethren.

7:00 p.m. — Since our poet was in the mood to further indulge himself, he set his mind to pondering. He was able to remember a multitude of folks who were better off, financially speaking. Feeling slightly ungrateful about his current status, he looked at those who were highly esteemed by the masses, as well as those who held prominent positions of prestige. He admitted the thought that he was jealous of those who were able to maintain their untarnished reputations, but he also saw that he retained a certain respect for the rich and famous, and felt a deep need for someone important to admire. However, he did cherish his privacy, and felt sorry for their loss in that regard.

8:00 p.m. — Evening came to pass, and as the darkness began its descent, the poet fell in line with the rhythm of the night. Even though the pearly white page remained purely empty, our man of words began to feel downright giddy. He took a look around and found this grand epiphany. He saw that even though the room was a mess, it wasn’t at all empty. There was no imagined Void. All was full! Having expended his portion of dark negative energy, he was finally able to get the joke. Having drank the magic potion down to the last dregs, he was finally ready to have a laugh, in and on his own behalf.

9:00 p.m. — Seeing the results of his uncontrolled foolishness brought him another revelation. Some of his things he had bent, yes, and a few of his things he’d broken, but none of his things were missing, not even his see-through muse. She was just being silent as the events of the night unfolded. Knowing that she had been there all along filled him with elation, and a contented happiness settled into his heart. In a matter of seconds, this joy turned into rapture, and hand in hand with the rapture, his long-lost confidence returned. Feeling as proud as a peacock, the poet stood up straight, took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and raised his chinny chin chin. He felt brave, courageous even, and so he began pacing the floor, quick as he could, seeking what in particular, he didn’t know at all.

10:00 p.m. — As the evening began its journey’s end, the poet began to tire. Finely attuned was he to his biological clock, and so he knew the time had come to hit the hay and call it a day. Against all odds, or so it seemed to him, he’d made it through one more chapter of his life with his beating heart intact. Repeating his nightly mantra, he stuck to his normal routine, and prepared himself for bed. After all was said and done, he made his way to the corner where he slept, and reached for the lamp. Once more, he looked at the blank sheet of paper and the untouched pen on his nightstand, but before he had time to turn off the light, his lady of ideal dreams spilled her magic beans. The poet gladly picked them up, and prudently placed them in an order befitting the occasion. Once he thought he could see perfection in their loving collaboration, he smiled, and thanked his merry muse. Turning off the light, he kindly said, “Good-night!” and went to bed feeling lucky.

THE END

*

Line art by Princess Elemmiriel

DeviantART

38 Responses to “A Fairy Tale Poet’s Muse”

  1. My Dear Uncle Tree…!

    I am SO happy you are back!! I’ve missed you terribly…

    That naughty imp of a Muse… oh, how She likes to play Her games! ;-)

  2. Why…
    Thank you, Penny!
    I’ve not really been gone, girl.
    It just takes that long for me to bear fruit. :) UT

  3. As the good Queen Victoriia said,
    “We are not a-mused.”
    Think yourself lucky she wasn’t in bed with you,
    oh lor’ :)

  4. Yes, Ed.
    I’d rather be amusing than a-mused.
    In bed with me? Who? The Queen or my fairy lady? :O

  5. Not the one who bent the quill :)

  6. i was, i must say, quit sure i should start to read what seemed such a long work.
    i was, of course, not mistaken.
    happily i noticed, that the most important line came already in the first chapter
    fourth line
    reading through this musical words bits and more bits of my life unfolded
    good night uncle
    good night
    fairy

  7. artists and their muses…………
    you can not have your muse and eat it too.

    piece, uncle tree

  8. Loathing The Fickle Fairy, eh? :)
    I’m glad you decided to stay, Dhyan,
    and thanks for stopping by!
    A familiar chord was struck, you say.
    I needn’t as you why.

    Goodnight to you, too. UT

  9. Hey Derek!
    I take it you know the like.
    Your words reminded me of a little ditty I wrote…

    You can have your cake..
    and you can eat it, too.
    Just don’t dare bite off
    more than you can chew.
    Chew what’s in your mouth.
    Savor, swallow.
    Eat desert first,
    good shit will follow.

    Thanks for stopping by, man. Peace back! :) UT

  10. Once again a wonderful work of art… It brought back many memories of me trying to write thesis papers this past school term… Very well written… Keep up the writing you do it so wonderfully.. Sherri 8)

  11. Thank you very much, Sherri!

    Maybe it was you who guided my subconscious toward taking
    a stab at a self-directed psychoanalysis. Way back when…
    I read several of Carl Jung’s volumes. A tough go,
    that’s for certain. Then I also read a book or
    two on the origins and history of the
    subject. Very liberal stuff, yes.

    Good luck with your exams!
    I hope you don’t need it. ;) UT

  12. Those darn muses can be so stubborn sometimes.

  13. They sound a lot like me, Bonnie.

    Good to see you again, girl,
    and thanks for dropping a line! :) UT

  14. Yes they do make one search in every nook and cranny don’t they?

    Sorry I haven’t been by to say hello lately but have been on a quest of my own lately and got lost in the sound of silence.
    :)
    b

  15. Muses does what muses musT ;)

    Yay, Bonnie, long silences eddy chatter :)

  16. Dear Bonnie,
    I knew your quest consisted of an oath of silence in hibernation.
    Even though I know your not a convict, I applaud your conviction.
    You did it. Congratulations! You also got me to hanging on every
    time I noticed you made a visit. I wish I had a ‘like’ button, but maybe
    even then you may have refrained from leaving me a hint. No matter,
    it was good to see that you were still along for the ride, and watching.
    Chapter 28 took a lot of hits because of your bookmark. He-he…

    I have so many questions. I’ve only put up 7 new pieces this year. The pic
    of me, the turn to fairy tale street, getting and losing an illustrator who
    I enjoyed working with for a short while, changing my motto to
    “Putting music to words, and words to pictures”. Taking a shot
    at these sorts of things…all new to me, and all that time, I wondered what
    you were thinking, but was left to hang until now. So here’s your chance.
    :) Ha! I won’t twist your arm, either way it’ll be okay. Really. Thank you!
    I wish you the best of luck with your garden. Ed’s the competition.
    I myself am only toying with the hanging tomato design this year.

    Take care, be good, stay safe, and have a happy day! Bye, UT

  17. Dear Ed,

    The toms are now out. My seedling sprouts didn’t make it, so
    I bought a few 4 inchers at the hardware store. The heat is on.
    If the muse of memory serves me correctly, I’m in big trouble. :)

    P.S. I may take on that filthy BP company next. I can smell it from here.
    The dirty bastards should be behind bars methinks. Gorillas speak to me.

    See ya! UT

  18. Hi Keith

    Glad you know I have been checking up on you from time to time. :)
    Just so you know, I’ve enjoyed your magical trips through fairytale land and
    your new house is a reminder of how the gentlest of things bring the most joy.

    Sorry you lost the illustrator. He does some amazing things. But in these crazy
    volatile times; things that were, aren’t and what will be isn’t known. Don’t bother with questions, the answers will be fleeting.

    The garden is growing nicely.

    Keep putting that music to words.

    b

  19. Hi eddy chatter!

  20. Thanks for filling me in, Bonnie!
    I’m glad I’ve been able to keep you entertained,
    and I’m happy to know you’ve enjoyed the trip I’ve been on.

    Maybe there’ll be another Aaron. You’re right. Who knows?
    It probably would be easier to do it the normal way,
    and pay someone to illustrate my stuff. I wish, I wish I wish…
    still waiting on that darn lottery to land on my usual numbers.

    My daughter went to the zoo last week, and brought me home
    some pictures. Those poor creatures — I will teach them to talk, perhaps.

    Thanks again! And good luck with that there garden! Bye now, UT :)

  21. Speaking of poor creatures, I have volunteered to help the Sierra Club
    with saving the wildlife on the Gulf Coast. That thing is much much worse
    than the MSM and the government is reporting. We have another dead sea in the making.

    Instead of going to jail, the perps should be stripped naked and dipped in
    that stuff, feathered, and put on display in the center of town me thinks. That includes
    the government officials who let them get away with no safety precautions.
    What a preventable tragedy.

    Oh and animals do talk, you just have to learn their language. :)

  22. Very, very good for you, Bonnie!
    It’s really hard to believe no one knows exactly how
    to plug the broken pipe. We choose ‘science’ over morality,
    and now no one feels guilty. We put a man on the moon, and yet…

    I do have a question. I was wondering — about that oil in Mother’s womb:
    Does it ever come to the surface all of it’s own accord? When the
    tectonic plates shift, doesn’t it naturally seep or spew out?
    How did MOM use to handle this type of situation?

    Secondly, is the price of gas going to rise because of this?

    I regularly watch Keith and Rachel on MSNBC, and I listen to NPR
    in the car. I’ve heard and seen enough, but this story does have
    competition. I bet:
    Before this is far from over, some other newsworthy event
    will bump it from the headlines. Immigration? Or Tiger Woods? Geez…

    Good luck with your project, b! Bye, Uncle Indignant Tree :(

  23. Anonymous Says:

    Hello Bonnie, derek, Ed & the man with the imagination of a magnificient TREE,
    muse is fickle, but nontheless,
    tend carefully and IT appears
    when the moment is right.

    love you all so much!
    ~ Kate

  24. Mommmm!!! Moommmmmm!!!!

    Tree is doing it again!!

    Sorry to hear about you illustrator Uncle Tree. I am guessing that was what you were talking about a while back.

    You tell and write excellent stories, if it’s Ok with you, I will always come around to read them (without causing the ruckus I did in the past) Make my old apology have meaning since sorry implies I am willing to change the behavior.

  25. Hello there, Kate!

    Whenever you choose to appear,
    that moment will be alright with me.

    You are loved and missed by all.
    Good to see you again, dear one.

    Hugs galore! Keith :)

  26. Just following Mom’s orders, Dusty.

    You guessed right. No biggie. I can use photographs as well.
    My daughter went to the zoo and took a few worth writing about.

    Thank you very much! Of course it’s okay. No need to make promises. ;)
    Take care, dude!

  27. I like to pretend my muse gives me inspiration,
    but often it’s a special occasion or holiday that
    gives me the urge to create music with words.

    Great works of art I find, and if I hear a story
    in my mind that is told by the vision my eyes
    plays before the me inside as he watches the
    unfolding of the leaves greatest words, as I stand
    still and watch the screen fill itself with my thoughts.

  28. Ladybird?

  29. Ah, yes! The lily-white bird of Paradise ~ :)

  30. Well – not to be trite about it (with all do respect to Bard),
    all’s well that ends well … the muse always comes round. An engaging read here. . .

  31. Thanks, Jamie! :) So glad you liked this
    tempest of a story. My muse can be quite shrew.

  32. Dear my ut
    Thank you for always being here at least through my few months on wp.. You are a classy inspiration to this poetess.. And yes I tease and tickle the poet in you , may I take this time to tell u what a dear wonderful man you certainly seem to be .. And as far as this chicka is concerned you are ..so for you:

    Ethereal Echoes
    Fairy tale ethereal poet
    Dances on my moonlit dreams
    With gentle words and hugs
    Your tender charm inspired me

    Dear uncle tree you caught my eyes
    Your whimsy set my intrigue free
    With one look at moving over boards
    To transport my poet’s soul alive

    Only grace within your natures plea
    Brought to life the poetess I held
    In darkest places wounds had cried
    Your patient care a mystery to me,

    How could one like me with heavy heart
    Ignore the gentle nudgings from your words?
    No wonder you ignite your magic prisms
    The willow captured bonds and then
    A passion for our tree connected and those dreams did start…
    Hope you like.. Pw

  33. Awww, Caro, my love, this is the sweetest poetic tribute I’ve ever had the pleasure of accepting, and reading, and taking to heart. You make me so contentedly happy, and thankful, and hopeful, and overjoyed. 2 months ago…my how it’s flown. And my, how our love has grown from the nurturing it receives from two dreamy Willows who are crazy about each other. I pray the hope to which we aspire is guided and accelerated by the good Lord above.

    You are my Heaven, Caro. <3 You amuse me to no end because,
    between we two, there is no end.
    Major hugz to my darlin' lover and friend, PW McHottestever!

  34. Thank you sweetest Keith.. You make me oh so happy with your words of hope and beauty 💜❤️Caro

  35. You make my every day, dearest pw nymph. :)

  36. You are the forrest king my love 🌛🌳💜❤️love caro

  37. The Willow Queen reigns, and I deeply bow in reverence. <3

  38. You are my sweetest mchottiest hottie this willow ever weeped for !!❤️💜

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