Thursday, October 22, 2009


Lost in writer's cell block 3,
the green mile of my written indiscretions,
searching for a jolt or jump start
to my weary muse, seldom used.
A poetry blog surfaces offering
refuge for that tired muse,
a home for worn phrases and ideas.
So the poet emerges, writing verses,
a rondeau here, a sestina there;
pantoum and villanelle, going to hell
for the sake of redemption,
not to mention all this haiku
I swore I'd never do,
being brought to bear on
this need to be expressive,
quite excessive, progressively
oppressed but, none the less,
a man whose words explode from his head
spraying his page with
the shrapnel of sardonic wit,
ere to wit, a spastic fit
of poetry that spans from
April until the twelfth of never,
cascading and parading
the sense of whether
the work will find
it's natural conclusion,
giving the illusion
that break time is over.
A writer sentenced to
a lifetime of solitary refinement,
a poet, with more things to say
than there are hours in a day.


  1. Walt! Your muse is used quite often, and with wonderful results. Now, if you are abusing your muse, that's another matter entirely. I will be forced to take measures. ;)

  2. Again, threatened with the revocation of my poetic license. Woe is me! I was on a three year dry spell, until I signed onto the Poetic Asides poetry group and I caught fire. Now I can't shut it off. Flashy Fiction now demands it's time which I gladly give. So if my muse feels roundly abused, it can choose to stay unused, but I'll fight it every step of the way! Hmmm. What kind of measures? ;) lol

  3. Well, let's see I've been known to...naw, I can't tell you that story. heehee ;)