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When the muses don’t come, and ride low on the pink cloud, and the response is slow, the I must return to the muses. I haven’t felt very poemey today, even after yesterday’s effort. The revelations have been in my mind, but still, everything I turn my gaze to feels contrived. The only thing to do in these moments is turn to the muses.

I don’t even have fragments to string together tonight. I just don’t. Gonna try anyway. Also, we are watching the championship. That might not give you insight into this poem, but it might, also.

The Muses Leave

We descended a hundred years in one hour,

the minute a stadium clapped for a war criminal.

What is this clapping?

The ended body of scholarship and

the minute of soaring lament rises.

These flabby arms of tempered hearts,

await a three-point shot,

and poetry is granted with the rock well sunk.

It is a practiced prayer.

We waded ten thousand rivers in one hour,

the minute a player shot for the win.

Nobody heard the hysterical trembling of those who waited,

but everyone prepared for the glorious doubt.

They prepared and prepared and prepared.

We wandered, desperate,

in the flowing path of solemn hurt.

The false, steep, downhill turning grew more fragrant

with the turning of seasons,

but the scent did not signal hope.

So we left.

Tempted to death by brainless, giddy joys,

at first we were amused.

At first.


Hmmmmmm. Poem friends, I’m grasping at this one. It took a lot of envisioning to make this one happen. Really the only thing that is keeping me going is the idea that I only have a few poems to go to get to a hundred. That’s a lot of poems. Happy Monday!