It is August and I am in Athens, walking upon the very stones the Ancients walked. Thus my thoughts are turned to the fair Muses themselves. Instead of lessons to learn, I offer here some bouquets plucked from my own garden of verse. Enjoy!
Rubaiyat Sonnet
Alas the Muse must vanish with the light
And close the manuscript of youthful fire
Why must I have so many thoughts in flight?
Why will not my Muse simply me inspire?
For every night a glass I have turned down
On this inverted bowl I call my desk
And bent my head for the laureates crown
To birth another written arabesque
But whence the bird forth from the branch hath flown?
How is’t Her brightness hence from me doth go?
Now here, abandoned, weeping, I do groan,
To ask why my Muse doth despise me so?
O Muse!
Oh Muse
How thou despitest me
With thine honeyed tongue in another’s ear
Oh Muse
How thou despiseth me
Wandering fingertips drawing another near
Oh Muse
What has thy servant done
That thou takes flight into the setting sun
Oh Muse
Oh harlot dancing veiled alone
If I thee beg on bended knee wilt come home
Oh Muse
How thou mistreateth me
Who but thy every torment loves
Oh Muse
How thou defeatest me
Thy servant and the tenderest of doves
Oh Muse
Oh fickle Muse!
Scream
The primal scream in my Underpants
As I caress my own Pomposity
Can be heard Echoing
In the emptiness that is My Cranium
I speak of the Mythologies as the Harpies
Gather their dead Syllable by Syllable
Where is your
Dragon
Now?
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