Between a Poet and a Hard Place

The Heuristics of a Poet's Call

The Muse doubted the sources of incense,
the delay of winds, the sacrificial acts.
The Voice demanded jurisdiction and would
not answer knowing others might.
Chaos whistled every tune known to man
between grim laughs for those who would be poets.


I stand in awe of all chores undertaken to make
words dip with the waves, luxuriate on a summer day.
How many rhymes, collected and thrown away.
How many stray words, rolled from side to side,
oddments revealed, set aside on the window sill
until some alien crow whisks them away.

How About a Little Help?

Hey there Muse, scratch humdrum, give me what
you gave them, the poets I've read.
Straighten 'em up or rumple 'em up, I don't care.
Give me flowers that work, not just lie piled there.
Throw in some metrics, a few four syllable words.
Some esoteric meaning. No, that's OK, I'll sign it.

Inaudible Answers

I call to the Muses. No answer, they must
be sitting beside a stream somewhere. I tried
streams. where fish wait with baited hooks.
I can see the bait. The hook: "its been done."
I tried temples. Where Muses sing.
Not a sound. Solitude finally answered.


So there I stood indebted to a voice
that cavorted wet and sparkling
through waters so deep and thunderous
fair-most fish wore armored scales and often sank
from the weight and the clamor. The slippery voice
trailed a finger, never doubting an arm could be lost.

Who Called?

The Muse called. Poets were needed.
Someone to bend the rules and come out symphonic.
The Voice called. Just one poet needed to insist
on daily confirmation he hadn't turned into a rule,
didn't sit under trees, thinking of old ruts
and incurable things, opposites for the sake of argument.


If you've any comments on her poems, L. Fullington would be pleased to hear from you.