The Poet’s Muse


She’s a delicate flower the poet’s muse.

She can really inspire but will always refuse

To do menial tasks or help with chores.

She will take your hand, help you find new heights

And will gladly unveil her supreme delights.

But the humbler tasks she’ll blithely ignore.

For muses won’t work nine to five you know.

They’re not always ready or  ‘good to go’.


She may not deliver every day.

Too delicate in her temperament.

You can hector her but she won’t relent.

She can’t work like that. It’s not her way.

The poet’s muse is a sensitive flower.

If you treat her badly she’ll sulk and glower.

She’ll punish you, leave your head in hands



A poem a day’s not really her style.

She alas can’t inspire you all the while.

She loves to delight but not to plan.

So treat her kindly, don’t push her too hard

Respect how she’s made. The way that she’s wired.

Treat her gently, don’t let her get tired.

For a poet can’t work if he’s not inspired.


Must I bleed?

4533DEF0-984E-4629-8C1B-69419645F189A poet has to get to work.
A stanza here; the odd few lines.
Just get it down. What’s on your mind?
Find a rhythm, maybe rhyme.

There’s worse work for a man to do.
There’s some-must earn their corn you know.
Just get it down. Don’t think it through.
The words are there but how’d they go?

Does rhyme need reason, conscious thought?
Don’t stop to think who’ll want to read?
Unconscious scribbles, last resort.
Will this suffice or must I bleed?