The Muse – Sketchbook Poetry

The Muse

all night the poet talks to me
waking me up sometimes at 3
telling me tales I can’t remember
rhymes that just may never be

but in the morn
some words remain
they play hide and seek
throughout the day
within my brain
brief images that just pop up
full bown
without a reason
to connect with with me

so I’ll think: round and round
of a sound, a bit of music, a song
a picture or perhaps a scene
that seems so real – like memory…

until I get behind the keyboard
and the words come flowing down
I feel I’m being hounded
by some urgency
without reason or purpose
to be found.
Inside my brain there lives a poet
A muse a master or a clown
and as the things I see go past him
he puts them into prose or rhyme§

Good or Bad?
bah…whether good or bad’s
not my job to tell…
don’t mind me, I’m just
the person who writes things down


dVerse Poet’s Pub – Sketchbook