Inspiration of the Indian Children

It's raining on the ridge
where the Indian children used to play.
They're no longer here,
drug away in the Trail of Tears
but their energy still remains
and when the Tears of God fall
upon that lonely ridge
you can hear the whispers
of those Indian children
as they inspire you to play,
your fingers lightly strumming
the strings of your guitar
or the strings of my heart,
and they inspire me to write
the poetry of my heart.
I regret that those Indian children
couldn't inspire us to write
a love song of our own.
Now I no longer hear the whispers
of the Indian children on the ridge
but their inspiration lives on
in the singing of my heart.

Copyright © 2009 by Shawn Murray

Oh Wicked Muse

surface for air
through the haze of sleep
feeling as though
no one really understands
what it means
to be controlled
by the Muse
and to be blocked,
the overwhelming need
to see words
floating across
the blank page,
the thirst to find
the twist of words
to feed the Muse,
to feel nourished again,
drunk on the joy
of writing a poem,
a few pages of a story
you thought had drowned,
died a most painful death
only to walk among you again
with the hope to inspire
the next turn of a phrase

Copyright © 2009 byShawn Murray