On My Way to My Muse

On my way to my Muse

I must clean off the kitchen table

And put the dishes in the dishwasher

And load clothes in the washing machine.

On my way to my Muse

I must get my favorite pen

And find a special journal

And finish writing out the bills

And pick up my messages

So I can have silence.

On my way to my Muse

I must get rid of all my doubts

And my share of not being good enough

And not being organized

And not being ready for success.

And so on my way to my Muse

I must call for a session to remove my doubts

And get a massage to relieve my tensions

So I know that I am the best I can be.

Then I reach out again to my Muse

And I find my hands aren’t quite clean enough

And my space isn’t clear

And I haven’t finished my chores,

And so I write her a letter

And ask her to forgive me

And to come again when I am ready.

© Hilda Ward, 2014

The Muse of Poetry by Konsantin Makovsky
from Wikimedia Commons

THOREAU’S BELIEF (REALLY!): A SONG (HE SAID, “WHY SHOULD NOT A POET’S CAT AS WELL AS HIS HORSE HAVE WINGS?”)

Winged cats exist.

Must exist!

Sublimely promiscuous,

They can’t not exist!

They don’t regard difference

Between earth, air, and light.

Borne up by silliness,

By faith, by similitude,

By their analogy to any shape,

They are lazily limitless

And may further their fur

Into petal or wings

Pluming through fable.

If winged cats don’t exist,

Clouds won’t blossom,

Grass won’t be kissed,

Water won’t be gardened,

And rocks, once curvaceous,

Will refuse affection.

Fire won’t be sinuous

If winged cats can’t exist.

Thoreau thoroughly knows

Winged cats must exist,

Uplifted by the hybrid

Serene weddings of wildness.

Furry wings are allowed

A unique perfume:

Earth, air and light insist

This trespass is wisdom.

© Stephen Margulies, 2014

Cat Graffiti in Prishtina
Photo by WikiPri
from Wikimedia Commons

Seeb Road by Night

Not far from the sea

In the north of Oman

A dreary two-lane road

Winds through the gravelled sand flats

Dark and heavily trafficked

Lined by a few scraggly dusty palms

A scene unworthy of a painter’s brush

And yet

And yet

Each night on this darkened stage

A tiny drama worthy of our time

Two boys, all of eight years old

Fan a makeshift charcoal grill

With a piece of cardboard

Grease-laced smoke rises from the grill 

And flames sometimes hover

Above the glowing gray-black coals

Lighting up their earnest faces

Cheap cuts of skewered lamb

Darken and sizzle on the grill

And cars pass by

This little stand

Between two palms

So dark it isn’t seen

So cars pass by

For more than one hour 

I watched them brown the lamb 

And set it aside

Waiting and hoping

Their obscure labor

Would cause a car or two to stop

Their expectations low

Sent out by their parents

Who knows how much they count on 

This hopeless, little stand

Who does their marketing?

Their advertising? 

© Bill Sypher, 2014

"Street Urchins"
oil on canvas
by Karl Witkowski
from Wikimedia Commons