The Muse
Bang that keyboard
as if sheer will
and the heavy tap-tap-tapping
of fingertips
pounding the keys
will arouse the muse.
He is still hidng under the covers
from the noon day sun,
grumpy and uncooperative.
“Stop working me so hard,” he grumbles.
“Even a muse needs his sleep.”
Perhaps he is in the wrong bed
and is not my muse at all.
You know how muses can be sometimes.
They wander off into the wrong places
at the wrong times
then feign innocence, ignorance
when no words of relevance appear on the screen.
©Birdstory Publications, 2008
as if sheer will
and the heavy tap-tap-tapping
of fingertips
pounding the keys
will arouse the muse.
He is still hidng under the covers
from the noon day sun,
grumpy and uncooperative.
“Stop working me so hard,” he grumbles.
“Even a muse needs his sleep.”
Perhaps he is in the wrong bed
and is not my muse at all.
You know how muses can be sometimes.
They wander off into the wrong places
at the wrong times
then feign innocence, ignorance
when no words of relevance appear on the screen.
©Birdstory Publications, 2008
1 Comments:
So that is what happened to my muse.
The source of all stories/words/ideas is barren at this time.
Perhaps a few weeks in Europe will help. Saturday we leave for time in France and Germany.
Perhaps upon my return I will have some ideas.
I do love your poems. Great idea, a poem a day.
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