Hanging
with the Muse
My Muse” drawing by
Rose Mary Boehm
What is My Muse? by Rose Mary Boehm
A sigh on a hot and windless summer’s day,
a colour that lives between the rainbows,
a note held long on the song that can’t be heard.
An intention that slides into the blue of a dawn,
a regret wafting on the waves of a warm evening,
perhaps a shiver dancing on a melting snowflake.
A memory on the taut strings of the round body of a life,
the wispy moon of a fresh spring morning,
the touch of those who can’t be seen.
A door unlocked but not ajar,
an invitation to enter the unknown.
a colour that lives between the rainbows,
a note held long on the song that can’t be heard.
An intention that slides into the blue of a dawn,
a regret wafting on the waves of a warm evening,
perhaps a shiver dancing on a melting snowflake.
A memory on the taut strings of the round body of a life,
the wispy moon of a fresh spring morning,
the touch of those who can’t be seen.
A door unlocked but not ajar,
an invitation to enter the unknown.
Help Wanted: Reliable Muse by Lauren McBride
Why do you disappear,
or seem only to appear
to lend a deaf ear
when I most need
help to proofread?
How it must amuse
you, my fickle muse
to frequently use
my rhyme-time
for your naptime!
Why do you disappear,
or seem only to appear
to lend a deaf ear
when I most need
help to proofread?
How it must amuse
you, my fickle muse
to frequently use
my rhyme-time
for your naptime!
If Will Will Be My Muse by Wilda Morris
With one line each from Sonnets 86, 21, and 38 by William Shakespeare
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse
made Shakespeare model for the English world?
How his invented phrases fill our mind!
So it is not with me as with that Muse
that sat upon his shoulder whispering.
I often struggle to determine what
I next should write, what subject to inscribe
in hopes that in some decades hence my words
will thrill or humble, even bring to tears
because the feeling comes across. So will
my little bark float to another time,
record the story of my life and loves?
If I should follow where his ink pen went
how can my muses want subject to invent?
Published in Words Across the Water II – 2022 by Poets Club of Chicago and Lansing Poetry Club
With one line each from Sonnets 86, 21, and 38 by William Shakespeare
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse
made Shakespeare model for the English world?
How his invented phrases fill our mind!
So it is not with me as with that Muse
that sat upon his shoulder whispering.
I often struggle to determine what
I next should write, what subject to inscribe
in hopes that in some decades hence my words
will thrill or humble, even bring to tears
because the feeling comes across. So will
my little bark float to another time,
record the story of my life and loves?
If I should follow where his ink pen went
how can my muses want subject to invent?
Published in Words Across the Water II – 2022 by Poets Club of Chicago and Lansing Poetry Club
(fractalEDGEpress, 2022).
Dear Muse by Karen VandenBos
Where are we going today?
Will it be to touch the stars
and taste the moon?
Will we drink tea with the
fairies and swim with the
whales?
How will we dress? Will it
be in glittery masks of gold
and elegant gowns or in
spinning tutus and combat
boots?
How shall we wear our hair?
Will it be like Rapunzel's or
shall we be flappers and crop
it in a bob?
Will we find holiness in just
one line or will we cast our
nets wide and fill an ocean
with words?
Wherever we go, whatever
we do, let's break all the rules.
Formerly published in Lothlorien
Where are we going today?
Will it be to touch the stars
and taste the moon?
Will we drink tea with the
fairies and swim with the
whales?
How will we dress? Will it
be in glittery masks of gold
and elegant gowns or in
spinning tutus and combat
boots?
How shall we wear our hair?
Will it be like Rapunzel's or
shall we be flappers and crop
it in a bob?
Will we find holiness in just
one line or will we cast our
nets wide and fill an ocean
with words?
Wherever we go, whatever
we do, let's break all the rules.
Formerly published in Lothlorien
Why I Miss My Muse by Marilyn L. Taylor
They used to flow so easily— the poems,
the syllables—like seed-pearls slipping down
a strand of disconnected chromosomes
for some unwritten sonnet. Every noun
would quickly find the quintessential verb
to lean against, quatrains would ebb and flow,
and nothing whatsoever would disturb
the equilibrium. Off they’d go
into that lyric wild blue yonder,
picking up some adjectives as needed,
working hard in tandem toward the wonder
of it all, sublimely unimpeded.
But nowadays-- like something on the wing—
disorder comes and wrecks the whole damn thing.
They used to flow so easily— the poems,
the syllables—like seed-pearls slipping down
a strand of disconnected chromosomes
for some unwritten sonnet. Every noun
would quickly find the quintessential verb
to lean against, quatrains would ebb and flow,
and nothing whatsoever would disturb
the equilibrium. Off they’d go
into that lyric wild blue yonder,
picking up some adjectives as needed,
working hard in tandem toward the wonder
of it all, sublimely unimpeded.
But nowadays-- like something on the wing—
disorder comes and wrecks the whole damn thing.
To My Ocean Muse by Joanne Durham
both of us bodies
borne of water
every day a balance
of buoyancy and gravity
your waves, folds
of memory
your surf sweeps me further
than I could swim alone
you lift what’s whole and broken
reveal buried histories
I hear my name echoed
over and over
syllables of every creature
you cradle
both of us bodies
borne of water
every day a balance
of buoyancy and gravity
your waves, folds
of memory
your surf sweeps me further
than I could swim alone
you lift what’s whole and broken
reveal buried histories
I hear my name echoed
over and over
syllables of every creature
you cradle
To A Man Who Made Love to Language by Luanne Castle
Inspired by the John Woods’ (1926-1995) poem, "Lie Closed, My Lately Loved.”
Lie still in this mind, my muse and teacher.
Don’t bedevil me with your demands.
You despised politics in poetry
and read me Forché as what not to write.
I can’t just take your word in this and must
reach out to others to create myself.
You taught that semi-colons are hairy;
still, I want to see if I can tame them.
But, John Woods you dear sweet bastard, you
knew how to stroke words so they rear up,
shudder, and settle back on the page
different than before you touched them.
I won’t always heed your advice, but please
listen to me and live always in my mind.
Inspired by the John Woods’ (1926-1995) poem, "Lie Closed, My Lately Loved.”
Lie still in this mind, my muse and teacher.
Don’t bedevil me with your demands.
You despised politics in poetry
and read me Forché as what not to write.
I can’t just take your word in this and must
reach out to others to create myself.
You taught that semi-colons are hairy;
still, I want to see if I can tame them.
But, John Woods you dear sweet bastard, you
knew how to stroke words so they rear up,
shudder, and settle back on the page
different than before you touched them.
I won’t always heed your advice, but please
listen to me and live always in my mind.
Appointment with the Muse by Judith Waller Carroll
How can the muse know where to find you if you don’t keep
an appointment with her?
–Margaret Hasse
Five a.m.
You’re at your desk, pen poised,
but as usual, she’s late.
No matter how often you glance at the clock,
gaze out the dark curtains, try to summon her
with Dickinson or Frost, she fails to appear.
Just when you decide she’s not coming
and heat up the griddle for pancakes,
she slips like a vapor through the sunroom window,
hair disheveled and damp with dew,
humming a cadence of birdsong,
her breath smelling faintly of spring.
How can the muse know where to find you if you don’t keep
an appointment with her?
–Margaret Hasse
Five a.m.
You’re at your desk, pen poised,
but as usual, she’s late.
No matter how often you glance at the clock,
gaze out the dark curtains, try to summon her
with Dickinson or Frost, she fails to appear.
Just when you decide she’s not coming
and heat up the griddle for pancakes,
she slips like a vapor through the sunroom window,
hair disheveled and damp with dew,
humming a cadence of birdsong,
her breath smelling faintly of spring.
Two Poems by Sharon Waller Knutson
The Muse Rides a Harley
into her driveway just as the sky
fades from tar to eggshell blue,
jarring her awake like a jackhammer.
Through the window, she watches him
peel off his helmet and leather jacket,
notices the ocean wave has receded
from his hairline and sand has settled
on his midriff since he disappeared. She tries
to tell him she doesn't need him anymore,
but he finds prepositions hanging with bath
towels, misplaced metaphors in the silverware
drawer, participles dangling from the balcony.
Over brandy in front of the hearth, he apologizes
and promises he'll never leave again.
She invites him to move into the guest room.
As the sky turns crimson, they discuss allusion
and anthropomorphism while tossing shrimp
and crab leg shells to the swooping gulls.
As they dance to the rhythm of bat wings
beating time, he whispers alliteration and allegory.
He paints bumblebees sipping nectar from long-
stemmed tulip glasses on a hallway mural.
Cacophony and hyperbole caterwaul as she writes
under full moon and scalding sun.
One day she realizes the guest room is empty.
As she reads her poems and signs autographs,
she expects to see him smiling in the crowd.
On mountain trails and at the shore, she searches
for him, but finds him in the garden planting
metaphors and similes under a turquoise sky.
The Muse Speaks
I’ve been pounding on her door
and ringing her doorbell
until my hands hurt
so I check to make sure the address
is correct and gaze through glass
and recognize the poetess
from her photo. The door opens
and she flies past me pushing
the buttons on her remote
and as the doors open on her Nissan,
I slip in the back seat. I sing syllables
and synonyms but she can’t hear me
over Sting screaming from the CD.
She pulls into Starbucks and I follow
whispering wise words in her ear.
but she is too busy blabbing
on her cellphone as she orders
a cold brew expresso. At the park,
we sit side by side on the bench
and I point to a cardinal
flaming like fire, ducklings
swimming in the stream, clouds
swirling like sheets on the line,
but she is on Facebook posting
likes, loves and emojis.
Just when I give up on her,
I see her pull out her pen
and notebook and scribble
a line or two and I smile
and scurry off to save
the next lost soul.
Both poems from He Puts on His Poker Face
The Muse Rides a Harley
into her driveway just as the sky
fades from tar to eggshell blue,
jarring her awake like a jackhammer.
Through the window, she watches him
peel off his helmet and leather jacket,
notices the ocean wave has receded
from his hairline and sand has settled
on his midriff since he disappeared. She tries
to tell him she doesn't need him anymore,
but he finds prepositions hanging with bath
towels, misplaced metaphors in the silverware
drawer, participles dangling from the balcony.
Over brandy in front of the hearth, he apologizes
and promises he'll never leave again.
She invites him to move into the guest room.
As the sky turns crimson, they discuss allusion
and anthropomorphism while tossing shrimp
and crab leg shells to the swooping gulls.
As they dance to the rhythm of bat wings
beating time, he whispers alliteration and allegory.
He paints bumblebees sipping nectar from long-
stemmed tulip glasses on a hallway mural.
Cacophony and hyperbole caterwaul as she writes
under full moon and scalding sun.
One day she realizes the guest room is empty.
As she reads her poems and signs autographs,
she expects to see him smiling in the crowd.
On mountain trails and at the shore, she searches
for him, but finds him in the garden planting
metaphors and similes under a turquoise sky.
The Muse Speaks
I’ve been pounding on her door
and ringing her doorbell
until my hands hurt
so I check to make sure the address
is correct and gaze through glass
and recognize the poetess
from her photo. The door opens
and she flies past me pushing
the buttons on her remote
and as the doors open on her Nissan,
I slip in the back seat. I sing syllables
and synonyms but she can’t hear me
over Sting screaming from the CD.
She pulls into Starbucks and I follow
whispering wise words in her ear.
but she is too busy blabbing
on her cellphone as she orders
a cold brew expresso. At the park,
we sit side by side on the bench
and I point to a cardinal
flaming like fire, ducklings
swimming in the stream, clouds
swirling like sheets on the line,
but she is on Facebook posting
likes, loves and emojis.
Just when I give up on her,
I see her pull out her pen
and notebook and scribble
a line or two and I smile
and scurry off to save
the next lost soul.
Both poems from He Puts on His Poker Face
The Muse Commands by Tamara Madison
We stop at the end of the pier,
where the full moon spreads its path
across the sea. Our little son gasps
at the sight, claps his hands, looks up at us
and says in a voice that is like a swoon
I want to draw that! I have to draw that now!
I know the feeling. We hurry to the market
before it closes, buy the only art supplies there.
Back at the hotel he sets to work, pink tongue
peeking from the corner of his mouth.
But crayons and rough paper are not enough
to capture his sense of it, the way the moon
stroked the water like a mother.
And I remember the time my brother
found me writing and insisted I share
my poem with him. Who could be closer
to you than me, your own brother?
Because he was older, I handed it over.
He read it silently, then left the room.
I read it again, but the feeling was gone.
We stop at the end of the pier,
where the full moon spreads its path
across the sea. Our little son gasps
at the sight, claps his hands, looks up at us
and says in a voice that is like a swoon
I want to draw that! I have to draw that now!
I know the feeling. We hurry to the market
before it closes, buy the only art supplies there.
Back at the hotel he sets to work, pink tongue
peeking from the corner of his mouth.
But crayons and rough paper are not enough
to capture his sense of it, the way the moon
stroked the water like a mother.
And I remember the time my brother
found me writing and insisted I share
my poem with him. Who could be closer
to you than me, your own brother?
Because he was older, I handed it over.
He read it silently, then left the room.
I read it again, but the feeling was gone.
Barefoot Muse by Joe Cottonwood
Faint gray dust of tiny feet
cross the wilderness, this blank sheet.
Barefoot muse, do I see?
Will you dance? Dance with me?
I sense that you are playful,
and also that you are no prude.
Have we met before? Was I crude?
Whisper metaphor to my ear
while I unhook your pink brassiere.
Your ideas, your wisdom, your vivid tattoos.
No more empty-page blues... . . . . . .
I don’t believe in Writer’s Block.
I do believe in Muse, or her absence.
She’s sensitive, shy, petite,
and I have a blundering tendency
to say something that spooks her.
Fortunately Muse has a sister
known as Buxom Belle.
Buxom Belle carries a rolling pin.
She will brook no excuses.
She will demand that you
sit your ass in that chair
with your fingers on the keyboard.
The one thing Buxom Belle
cannot do is give you words.
As writers, we are inspired by one,
compelled by the other.
Both are essential.
it's always personal by j.lewis
she has called and i not answered
hidden when i sought her desperately
whispered to me in riddles
and teased my mind with
colors i could not record
she is my muse
and though she cannot
be summoned
when i pretend
i am ignoring her
finally
finally
she comes to me
she has called and i not answered
hidden when i sought her desperately
whispered to me in riddles
and teased my mind with
colors i could not record
she is my muse
and though she cannot
be summoned
when i pretend
i am ignoring her
finally
finally
she comes to me
Which Muse Is Mine? by Joan Leotta
You might think my poems are powered by bathing in moon’s silver glow.
You might think my poems rise from my pen with dawn’s red-gold light.
You might think music, stars, great art are what give me pause
and yes, all of these, each one sometimes plays a part in my poetry.
But in truth, my muse, both engine and fuel to my creativity,
the one that stands by me always, never failing to empower
both thought and pen, first draft and revision, is the clock.
After years as a journalist, I learned that it is pressure
that turns my writing coal to diamonds,
so yes, deadlines still loom large.
Clock and his cousin, calendar, are the
ultimate boosters of my creativity.
Clock seasons my literary creations with the most
inspired verbal spices, creating delicacies
to plate for readers to enjoy.
Yes, I must admit, my creativity
clicks into overdrive
when clock or calendar declares
I’m almost out of time to finish,
when my heart hears the song, tick, tock, tick.
You might think my poems are powered by bathing in moon’s silver glow.
You might think my poems rise from my pen with dawn’s red-gold light.
You might think music, stars, great art are what give me pause
and yes, all of these, each one sometimes plays a part in my poetry.
But in truth, my muse, both engine and fuel to my creativity,
the one that stands by me always, never failing to empower
both thought and pen, first draft and revision, is the clock.
After years as a journalist, I learned that it is pressure
that turns my writing coal to diamonds,
so yes, deadlines still loom large.
Clock and his cousin, calendar, are the
ultimate boosters of my creativity.
Clock seasons my literary creations with the most
inspired verbal spices, creating delicacies
to plate for readers to enjoy.
Yes, I must admit, my creativity
clicks into overdrive
when clock or calendar declares
I’m almost out of time to finish,
when my heart hears the song, tick, tock, tick.
PRIVATE JOKE by Shoshauna Shy
My muse is a stick figure wearing a tie,
sprawled on a bench, one ankle balanced
on its opposite knee, chewing a straw,
ignoring me.
I've stretched the weeks as wide as a meadow
so I can stretch on the beach and expect
it will kneel at my neck, block the sun,
start to hum.
I twist and search. Is it not here?
Yes---there on that rock outcropping
beside the sea. Then folding its arms,
it shifts in place, smiles to itself, turns
its back on me.
My muse is a stick figure wearing a tie,
sprawled on a bench, one ankle balanced
on its opposite knee, chewing a straw,
ignoring me.
I've stretched the weeks as wide as a meadow
so I can stretch on the beach and expect
it will kneel at my neck, block the sun,
start to hum.
I twist and search. Is it not here?
Yes---there on that rock outcropping
beside the sea. Then folding its arms,
it shifts in place, smiles to itself, turns
its back on me.
Firebird by Mary McCarthy
She was a dream of rescue in a dry season, calling to me from her panoply of stars, feathers golden flames against the dark. Enchanted, I rose with her from my own ash, repeating the impossible resurrection, nimble as an acrobat dancing on a wire. There was no net, no room to fail, no excuse for anything less than ecstasy. I remember how wild we danced, bright as sacred quetzals, our colors a nimbus of coruscating fire.
These days I've gone to crow, my feathers dusty, my blacks unpolished, dull and unremarkable. She calls for me, my unholy spirit, but I am stalled, choked in the accumulated ash of pyres I am too worn to rise from. Those heady exaltations gone, like fog or smoke resolving in the morning sun, so faint I almost think they never happened, and I was only dreaming.
She was a dream of rescue in a dry season, calling to me from her panoply of stars, feathers golden flames against the dark. Enchanted, I rose with her from my own ash, repeating the impossible resurrection, nimble as an acrobat dancing on a wire. There was no net, no room to fail, no excuse for anything less than ecstasy. I remember how wild we danced, bright as sacred quetzals, our colors a nimbus of coruscating fire.
These days I've gone to crow, my feathers dusty, my blacks unpolished, dull and unremarkable. She calls for me, my unholy spirit, but I am stalled, choked in the accumulated ash of pyres I am too worn to rise from. Those heady exaltations gone, like fog or smoke resolving in the morning sun, so faint I almost think they never happened, and I was only dreaming.
Muses Are So Passé by Alarie Tennille
Do you really expect goddesses in gauzy
dresses to step down from Olympus
and guide your hand across the page?
Yes, we all seek some sort of inspiration,
but my Tweakers are on call 24/7.
Hear that?
Pa-chur, pa-chur, pa-chur…
ding-ding-ding-ding
Listen to the Tweakers whoop it up!
shooooweep, shooooweep, tat-tat-tat
clink-clank-clink-clank
Doctors would have to plant a mic
in my brain to pick up the pinball nonsense
fired off by neurons.
Muses will never be as ridiculous
as my Tweakers!
sppppuuuuuuuuuuuuzzzzzzzzz!
Can’t you picture them? Crowding together
inside and outside inflatable, microscopic
party rooms.
Tumbling somersaulting keeping me
awake until
they drift asleep, letting
their inspiration dribble down
the pipeline, spill
onto
my page.
Do you really expect goddesses in gauzy
dresses to step down from Olympus
and guide your hand across the page?
Yes, we all seek some sort of inspiration,
but my Tweakers are on call 24/7.
Hear that?
Pa-chur, pa-chur, pa-chur…
ding-ding-ding-ding
Listen to the Tweakers whoop it up!
shooooweep, shooooweep, tat-tat-tat
clink-clank-clink-clank
Doctors would have to plant a mic
in my brain to pick up the pinball nonsense
fired off by neurons.
Muses will never be as ridiculous
as my Tweakers!
sppppuuuuuuuuuuuuzzzzzzzzz!
Can’t you picture them? Crowding together
inside and outside inflatable, microscopic
party rooms.
Tumbling somersaulting keeping me
awake until
they drift asleep, letting
their inspiration dribble down
the pipeline, spill
onto
my page.
The Sculptor and His Muse, by Rodin by Cynthia Anderson
She whispers in my ear
until she is my ear.
It’s a form of torture,
being taken over
by an outside force,
whether I will or no.
She goads me to grab
the grist of my life
like a gun, and shoot.
Any semblance
of order is useless—
supreme anarchist,
she rides me, turns
my head in the street.
It’s she who decides
what to record, how
to decipher the code
of each body.
She uses the bronze
for her own ends—
the muscles ripple
for the pleasure
of her hands.
Previously published in MacQueen’s Quinterly
She whispers in my ear
until she is my ear.
It’s a form of torture,
being taken over
by an outside force,
whether I will or no.
She goads me to grab
the grist of my life
like a gun, and shoot.
Any semblance
of order is useless—
supreme anarchist,
she rides me, turns
my head in the street.
It’s she who decides
what to record, how
to decipher the code
of each body.
She uses the bronze
for her own ends—
the muscles ripple
for the pleasure
of her hands.
Previously published in MacQueen’s Quinterly
Three Ghosts as Muse Amuse by Laurie Byro
Cimitero Acattolico, October 31, 2020
Voices of John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelly, & Gregory Corso
Strange that my birth date is near the same as souls who scatter petals as they stick on the breeze— the lips on wild orchids, my lady’s unread notes.
Air is animalized lapwings. Only a Romantic would make feathers out of frost.
If my children would only speak, gurgling would fill my ears as water filled my throat. There are no shrill sounds of them tramping these stones to beg, to threaten tricks or treats.
Only you would invent feathers out of the white capped water that tucked around your chin. God is the dreadful silence of my unread poems.
If God is a gigantic fly paper, the devil is a swatter encrusted with joyful sinners.
God is the imagination. There is no God here in this rotting place, in any crevice of the earth.
I hope never to marry until this thing is done. A beautiful creature waits for me in silk and blossoms, but what then would become of my own time, my own charity?
These crooked old graves are perfect for telling lies. Marriage is two screams chained together clanking their soft meaty tongues. I deny honeymoon, I deny honeymoon.
Marriage denies happiness thus it is a contract between two miserable revelers.
Poor Tom’s a-cold, poor Tom’s a-cold, poor Tom’s a-cold.
We hold our hands towards you.
Cimitero Acattolico, October 31, 2020
Voices of John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelly, & Gregory Corso
Strange that my birth date is near the same as souls who scatter petals as they stick on the breeze— the lips on wild orchids, my lady’s unread notes.
Air is animalized lapwings. Only a Romantic would make feathers out of frost.
If my children would only speak, gurgling would fill my ears as water filled my throat. There are no shrill sounds of them tramping these stones to beg, to threaten tricks or treats.
Only you would invent feathers out of the white capped water that tucked around your chin. God is the dreadful silence of my unread poems.
If God is a gigantic fly paper, the devil is a swatter encrusted with joyful sinners.
God is the imagination. There is no God here in this rotting place, in any crevice of the earth.
I hope never to marry until this thing is done. A beautiful creature waits for me in silk and blossoms, but what then would become of my own time, my own charity?
These crooked old graves are perfect for telling lies. Marriage is two screams chained together clanking their soft meaty tongues. I deny honeymoon, I deny honeymoon.
Marriage denies happiness thus it is a contract between two miserable revelers.
Poor Tom’s a-cold, poor Tom’s a-cold, poor Tom’s a-cold.
We hold our hands towards you.
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