Best Muses Poems
'Twas the night before Christmas and their pages were bare
Not one word could they write, not one verse to declare
The Grinch had snuck in, and in one fell swoop
Had stolen the muses from poets on the "Soup"!
It was the thing that all poets dread
As visions of emptiness swirled in their heads
No syllables floated to fill in the gap
Some poets decided their contest to scrap!
Then on the blog page there arose such a chatter
Poets rushed over to see what was the matter
The blogger's avatar was just a red sash
She said she could get back the muses, for a large sum of cash
Many of the poets thought this was a trick
It was just a scheme to make money real quick
But in the blink of an eye another blogger came
He said that St. Nicholas was his real name!
Now Heidi, now Anne-Lise, now Andrea and Jan
They told us that St. Nicholas had a plan
To the realm of the Grinch where green snowflakes fall
St Nicholas would go and retrieve the muses for all!
In no time at all he took to the sky
And to the realm of the Grinch on his sleigh he did fly
As the Grinch lay sleeping the muses he withdrew
And to the Soup, again he flew
He delivered the muses to all the poets around
Poets started writing their words did abound
They wrote of angels and bright stars, and things that uplift
St. Nick had given them the muse as their gift
Then St. Nick called for all his reindeer
And soon he took off and flew out of there
But they heard him say, before he left the site
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good write!!
To glide with inspiration above quilted clouds
Where birds so often soar
Glimpse a sunset hued in gold
With many colors to adore
To grasp the muse that swing from creative vines
And sway from abstract thoughts
Upon the page release the lines
Which meander within the plots
Clasp the quill as the ink flows
And carefully craft each verse
Clutch the metaphors in rhyme or prose
As throughout the page they intersperse
Sometimes the ending can hold a surprise
And cause a gasp in its trail
The words flow subtly and with guise
Its meaning you then inhale
6-28-2021
Writing Prompt Grasp - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Inspired muses reach out from the page
To touch the hearts and minds of those who read
Their presence in descriptive rhymes, a sage
In words of ink your thoughts become a seed
I wonder if it's ever crossed your mind
Someone in years to come might feel your muse
Will it be inspiration they will find
Or will your words just leave them more confused?
And yet we bleed our muse to feel the high
Then cover up the blood in metaphors
We make them laugh, so no one sees us cry
Those fears we hide in words forevermore
But muses rarely ever get the blame
Cause down below, they wisely sign your name.
by Daniel Turner
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
The allure of mused poems,
No longer visits this nonchalant psyche.
It trickles now, once a roaring torrent
Now a lazy stream
Am like a desultory jaded heaven
Where starry jewels once decked the night,
But are now drossy shadowy blackholes,
And sparks and dreams,
Are ripped in the accretion disc.
No longer avid, but seeking meaning in the mundane.
No longer enraptured by the she said, he said,
And all that jazz, no iota of care; for trifling muses,
Their short goodbyes or critique, no not one,
Their infighting and bad blood, no longer,
No nuts to crack, nor rain to flush, no iota of care.
It was never about who is better,
Neither has it been nor will it ever be,
About any Magnum Opus.
Like doors closing and skies descending,
Each visiting muse devoid of ardor,
Oblivious to the yawning dawn,
Or the scent of sprouting posies.
Jaded, without allure or sheen
And devoid of all its lustre.
Maybe one day soon a spark will reignite
And reanimate this frenetic mused madness
But until then...
I remain adrift in this sea of trivialities,
Worrying about trifling stuff
Like ad blockers and AI opinions
And irked...
By their emasculating knowledge
Poem Of The Week(POTW) -9/15/2024 To 9/21/2024
My mind is a house with a thousand rooms
That burst at the seams with recollections
In vain I have tried with a thousand brooms
To sweep the excess of stacked projections.
So often I sift through each fading page
Intending to shred what lacks importance
But failures greet me, all my plans upstage
Submit to the waves, without resistance.
Condemned to a life stranded in the past
Of strength I am drained, dearth of endeavour
Decisive my choice, now the die is cast
Fast chained to regret that lasts forever.
How long could I cope in terms conceptual?
A second in time could be perpetual.
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The Meld of Muses Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish
13th February, 2020
In the still of the night, when the Muses speak,
What a wondrous thing to hear--
That magical sound of the siren's call
Falling upon your mind's eager ear.
Those sweet ladies wait at the midnight gate,
With their golden harps to play.
But the creative wind is Insomnia's friend,
It will blow your slumber away.
Next morning, the sighs, yawns, and red eyes--
The price of the sleep a fool loses,
But what can I say? It's a small price to pay
For a wild night out with the Muses.
My grandfather once told me that the death
of a poet was as saddening as a burning library;
how right he was!
Before, I thought poetry was just a smart
combination of words in verses,
making everything you understand to be hard
to decipher, akin to the hieroglyphs scribbled
on the walls of pharaohs' tombs.
As I grew older, there it was! My grandfather's
statement!
Verses in the Bible, Bhaga-vad-Geeta, revolutionary books,
lyrics of popular songs.....; all were dependent
of the fact that a poet somewhere did what he was born
to do; inspire the world with words that ignite emotions.
There was a time I couldn't see God at all –
my good muse came to me in many blossoms,
the elevating scent and beauty of such creation
was my lift to higher realms
There was a time, I did not believe there was a God –
Muse came to me in the form of a grade-school teacher
who told me, I was worth any suffering
There was a time when God was simply a myth,
till a loving wife and birth of a child taught the meaning
of presence
Whatever the good muse, where you and the muse have gathered
in good faith,
there also is God.....
Screaming
At me muse
Wails like a wild
Banshee throughout the night
Tantrum.
"The Muses"
Allusions
camouflaged confessions
I have read them all, each page
envelopes emptied
turned inside out
pockets of Poésies
they sprinkle their messages
like confetti, minds popping
like corks, frothy and overflowing
some kind celebration
cupped and bled
stories of fairy-flossed confection
the sugar compote
cooked in the head
before dreams
are laid
and set
I have read them all
envelopes emptied
inside out
Allusions
all skipping
the fine lines
locked and open
all sentences
of the muses
a musing
Candide Diderot. ‘24
"I found a grave
Brushed off the face
Felt your light
And I remember why I know this place
I found a bird
Closing her eyes
One last time
And I wonder if she dreamed like me
As much as it hurts
Ain’t it wonderful to feel?
So go on and break your wings
Follow your heart 'til it bleeds..."
allusion. n.
an expression designed to call something to mind without mentioning it explicitly; an indirect or passing reference
My muse sighs and leaves me unwell
and cuckolds me like faithless love
as if she's ne'er my god or belle,
afflatus or creative breath
who came from the summits above
to save me from poetic death!
"Why go, O Calliope!?" I yell;
her leaving brings about such woe
and inexpressible sorrow
that's too profound, too deep to tell:
I pray to Zeus I'll never know
this Melancholia of hell!
My muse sighs and takes leave of me,—
I yell, "Why go, O Calliope!?
The nine muses
Daughters of Zeus
Inspiring of mortals
And nurturers of the arts
The first was,
The divine Calliope,
Beautiful-voiced,
Was the muse of the epic poets
A writing tablet in her hand
Calliope was Homer's muse
Inspiration for the Iliad
Divine influence of the Odyssey
The second was,
The divine Clio
The maker of fame,
Was the muse of history
A parchment scroll in her hands
Clio was the proclaimer
The third was,
The divine Erato,
Desired and lovely,
Was the muse of the lyric poets
A golden arrow in her hand
Muse of love verse
And of Erotic poetry
Erato the muse who charms the sight
And inspires love in everybody
The fourth was,
The divine Euterpe,
Rejoicing well,
Was firstly the muse of music
Then of Lyrical poetry
A double flute in her hand
Euterpe the Giver of delight
The fifth was,
The divine Melpomène,
The one that is melodious,
Was firstly the muse of singing
To celebrate with dance and song
Then she became the muse of tragedy
And hid behind a tragic mask
A knife or club in her hand
Creator of beautiful lyrical phrases
Melpomène muse of Horace
The sixth was,
The divine Polyhymnia,
The one of many hymns,
Was the Muse of sacred poetry and sacred hymns
Of eloquence and pantomime
In her long cloak and classical pose
Polyhymnia was a serious, pensive and meditative muse
The seventh was,
The divine Terpsichore,
Delight of dancing,
Muse of choral songs and dance
A lyre in her hand
Accompanies the dancers
Terpsichore muse of dance
Mother of the sirens
The eighth was,
The divine Thalia,
Flourishing, in bloom,
Was the muse of comedy and idyllic poetry
A comic mask in her hand
The praises of Thalia, rustic goddess
And in her songs flourish through time
The ninth and final was,
The divine Urania,
Heavenly muse,
Was the muse of astrology
A globe in her hand
Dressed in a cloak embroidered with stars
Urania was reader of the stars
Calliope, gives us epic poetry, but not to me
Erato, erotica I’d rather have a cup of tea,
Clio, gives us all that is past and gone
Euterpe, gave mythology the giver of legends, every one
Melpomene, the muse gave us tragedy and many tears
Terpsichore, gave us dance, down through the long years
Thalia, is my favourite she gave a good laugh
Urania, astronomy I love watching stars from my bath
Polyhymnia, muse number nine gave us song-not rhyme.
Contest Entry for Tracie's Nine poem, nine lines, nine words in each line
~GG~ 11/01/2013
Of all the gods and goddesses
Found in Greek mythology,
My favorites are the nine Muses*,
Each means something special to me:
Calliope is epically bombastic;
Urania has stars in her eyes;
Erato's love poems are fantastic;
And Melpomene says of tragedy,
"It's not a play unless somebody dies.";
Polyhymnia's hymns're rafter ringing;
With Clio through history I prance;
Euterpe is kind 'bout my singing;
Terpsichore, not so much 'bout my dance.
But my main muse has always been Thalia,
We were so good together on stage,
And considering how long this gal's been around,
She's holding up well for her age.
Now that I'm no longer acting
I don't see her as much anymore,
Though I know anytime I get stuck for a rhyme,
She'll be there for me just as before.
She says I'm not much of a poet,
My verse is not epic and grand.
And she's right, it's not great, and I know it,
But at least it's not vapid and bland.
She likes to drop by to remind me
Of what she thinks were happier times.
When she wants me, she knows where to find me,
Here, scribbling away at my rhymes.
*The nine Muses: Calliope-epic poetry; Erato-love poetry; Polyhymnia-hymns; Euterpe-song; Thalia-comedy; Urania-astronomy; Melpomene-tragedy; Clio-history; Terpsichore-dance