The Unart of Writing

I deliberately sat down to write,
Dragging my muse out
Kicking and screaming—
Still in his t-shirt without sleeves,
Not having yet put on
The gold chain and glossy
Tight suit;
Mine was of the night:
Slept the day long…or drank (a rumor);
Regardless—resenting the day-shift
Was stubborn to my calling;
Arrived late and grumpy—
Early I should say,
The sun just into rising;
Birds on their second chorus,
One of those extended hosannas
With extra light and trills;
Muse complaining their song
Distracting;
Sunlight too inflexible for
Contrasting rhymes—complaining all of the time;
So I wrote:
It’s too light
Too bright
To much noise
Too many toys (computer games, VCR—etc)
Insisting poetry is a serious matter
Not conducive is all this chatter—
Dog and catter (made that one up on my own)—
Too much too little not enough too too—

Note: Monday look for new muse?

Go back to sleeping all day?

Perhaps? Well?
The end.

The Unart of Writing

devotee1

Joined February 2008

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