What A Muse Meant: A Shower Poem

Years ago, I used to write a lot of poetry. A lot of poetry. It was before I took to long-form writing but I had the itch to get emotions and ideas and concepts out and poetry was the simplest way to do it. There are tons of different kinds of poems, too, so I got to flex my muscles with haikus, iambic pentameter, acrostic, couplets and more. I ended up primarily doing the kind that don’t necessarily rhyme or have a consistent structure but follow a rhythm. Maybe they sound better read aloud than seen on a screen, I don’t know.

Anyway, back then I would often be in the showet when a line I loved or a verse I craved struck me and I would weave most of or all of a poem in the shower. From the ceaseless depths of my creative soul, I decided to dub these “shower poems”. I know, thanks for the applause.

I moved on as I got older to writing short stories, then longer short stories, then novels. My poetry trickled awat and stopped. Only recently have I been taking a crack at it again. This poem isn’t necessarily more special than other poems I’ve posted on Word Whiskey. It’s not even necessarily better. It’s just the first shower poem I’ve had in a while:

The stage fits her like a tight dress
The spotlight, a necklace
Dark hair shines like Tahitian pearls Curled back behind her ears
The microphone in hand seems to alleviate any
Fears she might have had
The bad day slips away from her
She slips away in turn; the music
Burns through the air
The words slip out, smooth as silk, rich as gems
Every him hee-hawing in the crowd is cowed into silence
There is only her

Her body moves on the river of the beat
She sways in place and her face says
She is somewhere better
Her lips play with a smokey smile
Enticing under closed eyes, while
Her hips keep time
A metronome in the form of a woman
Hypnotizing, mesmerizing
With that form, a form of pleasure
Treasured; and still pale in the shadow of
That Voice

Her voice box is a paradox rising up from the deep
Lipstick on scotch
Ballet on the edge of a knife
A primal elegance feasting on innocence
One hunger replaced with another
Carried on the night with a tight grip on the mic

The final notes fade gently
Like turning the last pages on the latest entry of your favorite series and
Serious eyes size up the stage stranger
Dangerously alluring during and after performing
Silence reigns in melody’s wake
She takes a deep breath and glides away as easily as she swept in

Veni, vidi, vicit