Nine Muses Poem by Sheena Blackhall

On Saturday the muse fell out of a taxi
Drunk as a skunk, one eye like an addled egg
What pen could resist a grim faced tosser like that?

On Sunday the muse was a dark cloud filled with rain
It bore grave portents, heavy as a flower topped coffin
Pulled across the heavens, a dead weight

On Monday the muse was a ladybird on a stone
It quivered, missing the sun
The warmth of company

On Tuesday the muse was a six year tossing a tampon
A new toy, she didn't know its use

On Wednesday the muse was a mongrel
Straining to defecate on Bannockburn,
A whole bus watching

On Thursday the muse was Wisdom
Found in a daughter longtime overlooked
Like a roadside violet, modest and delicate

On Friday the muse was a robin, broken necked
Something the cat trailed in, a flame extinguished

At midnight the muse was a full moon
Setting the wards in asylums all a-howling
The nursing sybils say

At dawn, the muse was Green Tara's cave
In a raging burn in Balquidder
Like a small snappy Dandy Dinmount
Pretending to be a wolf