Poetry, My Muse, writer, creator, all my abilities.
 

"There will never be a truer reflection of My Soul,
than this,
for herein lies my being"

Poetry My Muse!
By Linda A. Copp

Poetry My Muse,
Verses, Rhymes, Thy Truth,
Has Come to speak with me Again,
As he does every,
Now and then.

And as usual it is the music,
which brings Thy words to be.
Some are given freely.
While others are torn
from these depths inside of me.
The spirit, none can see.
This Something,
I call poetry.

This piano plays the music of life!
But,
It is Thy music which
brings me to the heights,
moves me, as it soothes me,
raises me to where
heaven's stars are shining bright,
And I touch them with great care.

Stars, I touch when I create.

Yet, If only
I could play these notes,
spilling all about,
Thy words,
Surrounding me with melodies,
that only I have heard.

Iris of the soul.
Sweet symphonies.
Played against the backdrops
of the canvases, I see.
Painted in wondrous,
watercolors,
bits of sky and sea,
Chalks and hues of ecstasy.

And yet, my canvases
like these melodies,
can never come to be,
will never spill from me.

Window through, Gateway to the soul.
For all I ever render are these words,
you've given me.
All else is never reflected back,
hidden in my cloak,
of indigo and lack.

The deepest dark, I know.
For they too, are lost in me,
with all the colors of the sea.
And the wondrous blues of the beyond,
amidst those stars we wish upon.

Lavender blues, and Aqua greens,
the finest yet of oils, linens, scenes,
all these colors dancing in between.
Colors of the soul.
dancing musical notes
Yes,
If only I could sing,
If only I could bring,
Thy music to the winds,
to live with Thy poetry,
as it was meant to be,
along with these portraits,
scenes inside of me.

Colors of my canvases and music I see is lost inside of me.
But, alas, they smother too
and die,
they drown,
to make no sound.
And no reply.

This yearning turns to great despair,
I am lying, crying, dying here
In want, in need, in loss
the heartache
of all of This.
I cannot ever do.

Stain glassed colors of the heart and soul!
Now,
My shattered soul,
remains,
though it still
contains,
all these shards,
of stained
and broken glass,
breaking yet,
Again
and still splintering once more.

Til these splinters,
of the soul,
these thoughts,
thrashing,
out of control,
are drenched in
hidden feelings felt,
and have knelt,
to Thee.
Then They and I cry out.
Yet,
I wonder, and I cry,
tears streaming down these eyes.

Everything is woven,
there,
into the mirrors of my soul.
Sketched into them,
lacey breaths around the
whole,
traces of your time,
spilt,
like those once bottled inks of mine.
Written here,
in poetry, prose and rhyme.

Yes, All my truths are here,
in the quaking, and the quell,
with
This ever re-awakening fear,
as well.

Fear it shall all have been for naught
these poems, me, these thoughts,
and yet, still the greater fear,
I cannot find the Word.

The words, they are all of me
and yet, none of them will ever do,
you see.
My own self imposed Purgatory.

I quiver and I
tremble
with these
breaths of need,
And want
this soul searching,
heart wrenching uncertainty,
reaching out for
Thee
and yet,
that is its,
struggle for
your heights,
its
very ecstasy!

Quill and pen I write my soul.
Poetry My Muse,
Tapestries are woven with this truth
mere words cannot convey
these depths
these tears I've wept
and swept away
for words are empty things,
these
threads of beginnings and endings
mere shadows,
shallow epitaphs,
given,
written,
Lost and gone
though spoken,
they are never truly heard
without your song!

It is an agony,
a sweet sadness all of this,
this that
I can never tell.

For just As I can neither etch nor draw
the watercolors here
surrounding me,
nor the notes lost in their pastels.
They disappear.

Ah! When pastels are veiled in frost.
They show both sides of heaven and the cross.
Colors in my soul, feelings in my heart paint this canvas which is thou. Art, the language of the heart.

These canvases,
unique and unto me,
they be both the rarity
and breadth of my soul seeking,
in its depths,
to find its very breath.

Why there is no portrait, and no landscape created
that can compare
with the voices whispering there,
singing with silvery notes what only God has played,
On harps and xylophones he has breathed
His very life into They and me.

Poetry My Muse,
Where Art,
Thy Music of the Heart,
with still so much wanting to be said
like the flutters of our souls as we try to reach
and grasp for the like,
wherever it may be
the depths of each other's,
mystery.
Souls seeking the very breath.
We are alone
but yearn,
as one
All we spirits to become,
Thy Spirit which art the One.

Maybe Heaven is just this,
Art,
Music , Word,
And Kiss.

Oh! Poetry, My Muse!
this ringing, singing trilogy,
of joy and love, sweet, peace,
Tied up and wrapped in these robes
of this exquisite agony . . .
And yet,
its other side,
great ecstasy.
These feelings flying away and fast from me
tears run down my face,
Beautiful Jesus
I thank thee, MY GOD, for giving me this,
this brush, these words,
'tis Heaven's kiss.
Is all of this.
And yet, dare I ask, why it is not enough for me,
I yearn to speak in all Your Loveliness,
Your Arts.

I should not grieve nor want for more
as I take my pen in hand
and let the words come rushing out,
spilling all about.

This song is all of me,
such sweet agony
As I reach within to find what's hidden there,
meant never to be shared,
least it shudder and it die
when brought before the world's
mindful, watching, prying often too,
denying eye.

Jesus, my Lord walks among us.
I try to find the words for this feeling that I have,

And yet, Poetry My Muse,
you art the closest thing to ecstasy,
this Believing,
see,
for all I am or will ever be,
is entwined in these words
you have given, shared with me.
Spirituality,
Is all I truly be,
with this great and wondrous ache,
which I can neither give up nor ever quite forsake
For I must try again, again, again to say,
to find, to speak, the perfect word,
the paint brush to draw what I have both loved and heard.

Poetry My Muse,
I both thank and kneel to you.

Sweet Ecstasy is this,
both the sadness and the wonder of,
The Poet's kiss,
My God I thank you for it all,
for All Poetry Art Thine,
though I speak not in proper verses,
prose
nor
Iambic pentameters of time.
Jesus, my Lord

It is all and yet,
it is not best,
But I hope it 'Tis no less,
beautiful in your eyes,
than all those artists
with their exquisite paints,
the composers with their scores,
or the poets who know better languages than I.

For they could not love you more,
My God,
than I.

Poetry My Muse,
looking through me,
coming to me,
I sing for you,
only
and always for you
with God's eyes
of both indigo and blue.

God I sing these words for You,
for all this poetry Is You!
As is everything I am
or everything I will ever be,
or ever do.

By Linda A. Copp
June 1, 1999



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