My Elusive Muse Trixie
Trixie has disappeared, tired of writing mushroom poems I guess.
Come out, I say. I cannot pen missives without her, I confess.
She has left me in a bind, in the dust, in a totally bereft mess.
I will do whatever you want I say, casually meaning more or less.
Trixie pops up long enough to suggest Coleridge, she has nerve!
I am not an Old Master; Trixie is vim, sass, vigor, zing and verve!
Okay, what about Poe? She says, the only thing is, he was a perve.
I pussyfoot around her next suggestion as she rounds a curve.
Trixie is very much in charge of what I do, write or say.
She can make or break me with my words every single day.
I do not know how she got the reigns of my pen so dapple gray.
But she is the one I turn to if I want my words to sway.
So I promise her the moon, rice krispie treats and other gooey things.
She is slapping a tambourine, and deems herself one of the kings.
I give her all the credit, for I have learned lessons the hardest way.
And in order to write poetry I need Trixie my muse back today!
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