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