Charles J. Ingerson

THE TOUCH OF A MUSE

Seeking an understanding
painting and singing tried
but critics were demanding
and I went home and cried.

Writing a great novel next
but spelling and grammar
left me no room to flex
and all I did was stammer.

But the love of a child
within burned brightly
so many thoughts wild
thus I wrote nightly.

On scraps of paper small
on napkins or even arms
on anything flat at all
words which were alarms.

Indeed no one to complain
the ponderings were mine
on the paper to now stain
regardless whether fine.

Blessings come to share
others to feel the love
how much a Muse to care
sent to me from far above.

The touch is special today
it seems never to desert
somewhere longing to pray
with the Celestial to flirt.

Thus there is no bound
within the Muses such
where words are found
in the warmth of touch.

Then Father whispers near
my child have you thought
and I tremble and fear
at another verse taught.