While the Muse is Away
I am a poet,
my pockets overflow
with letters, words,
ideas, snappy phrases,
like sensible shoes, each of them
capable of long journeys,
comfortable as well for brevity,
eager for journeys to ocean beaches,
Puget Sound, Mt. Saint Helens, empty
now of her pent up rage, her cauldron
contents less volatile than long ago.
Pockets emptied onto the desk,
sorted, they prove a rambunctious,
disorderly lot, unwilling to gather
in any sort of poetic line-up,
I’m thinking maybe a few mug shots
might snap them into attention.
Wearied now, I catch a giggle,
then another – before long
my resistance fades, laughter
bubbles within, face forms a smile,
shoulders relax and I sigh, accept
my muse’s absence and reach
for a mighty fine wine, comfortable
chair and an engaging book.
by judy Beaston
March 23, 2013
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