Drumbeat of the Muses
The muses all march to their own rhythmic drum
Or saunter or scamper in their favored time
The poems will come when they come, when they come
Blank paper on desk, pen on finger and thumb
The poet sits poised to inscribe thoughts sublime
The muses all march to their own rhythmic drum
With verve you foresaw untapped depths you would plumb
But zeal slowly fades in a mute pantomime
The poems will come when they come, when they come
Yet do not despair or resign as would some
The cycle of seasons is their paradigm
The muses all march to their own rhythmic drum
Enjoy the down time: visit friends, share some rum
Read poets you love while awaiting your rhyme
The poems will come when they come, when they come
Then, glorious day! Muses sing, dance, and hum
Fresh words fall like snowflakes, cathedral bells chime
The muses all march to their own rhythmic drum
The poems will come when they come, when they come
written 22 Jan 2020
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