Here's a short poem that I would like to offer all the poets out there and to our most treasure muses...
When the Muses Left
A lonely poem waited at the gate
Of all the unsung songs,
Anxious to be written
Like a motherless baby, wanting to be born.
And sonnets silent on the rustling leaves
Remain unseen, wet, and clear like morning dew,
Yet beauty, truth and self expression
Call out for things anew.
The anxious man inside cried out
But sang without a sound,
Only dust like tumbleweed and shadow dancers moved about
Whilst unborn thoughts stayed empty, silent, bound.
With sisters three or nine, yet not a Goddess can be found
Not Mneme, Melete, not Aoide was seen or heard this day,
Perhaps it’s that I haven’t lived
Or have nothing left to say.