Muse Cycle

The Elusive Muse

Dec ’24

The Muse plays her hurtful games,
Like a lover lost among the shadows of my mind.
My heart, longing, empty, like the whiteness of the page.
Oh, what Herculean task I would undertake to have her in my arms,
To dance under the light of the full moon,
To put an inspired pen to paper!

The Muse’s Kiss

Dec ’24

The Muse sits mocking,
Teasing me with her beauty,
A creature of smoke and silken dreams.
She dances upon the rim of my coffee cup;
She saddles the smoke of my cigarette;
She plays in my hair, swinging as if it were vines.
She gifts me a moment of bliss,
As she vanishes with a kiss.

The Muse

Dec ’24

She slips in and out of my sight,
Made of smoke and silken dreams.
I call to her, but she doesn't answer.
I am lost and empty, staring at a blank page.

I invite her for a pleasant chat,
But she puts her finger to her lip
And shakes her head—no, no, no.

I asked for a hug, but she slipped through my arms,
Strands of formless smoke.

I sit and sip coffee, tired of the game,
But she kisses me on the cheek and vanishes laughing.
I reach to type, but it's gone.
I sigh and pout, beaten.

She climbs onto my desk and sits, legs crossed,
A sly grin crossing her face.
She laughs and says, “Write about me, you silly goose!”
So began the tale that ends here upon this page.

Muse in Smoke

Dec ’24

She slips in and out of my mind,
A creature of incense and dreams,
The very nature of my thoughts.
She teases me with her beauty,
A flirtatious figure never to be fully held.
She giggles at the blank page.
She whispers, "I am here, what more do you need?"
She dances upon the page and vanishes,
Only to reappear riding the smoke of my cigarette.
She dives into my coffee and pretends to be Esther Williams.
I can't help but giggle at her antics.
I try to catch her with my spoon, but alas, I fail.
We play this game into the night,
When lids become heavy, as if she is weaving an opium spell,
And I sleep a blissful sleep, the page still blank.

Morning Muse

Dec ’24

She hides among the morning flowers,
Dancing upon the dew-covered petals.
She smiles and does the backstroke in my morning coffee;
She uses my spoon as a grand silver slide.
She dances upon the blank page,
Like Degas dancers, light and free.
She wraps herself in smoke of the incense,
Wears it like a dress as she struts.
She is in everything and nothing:
She is my beloved Muse