People ask me what I am doing writing poetry.
What a damn fool question, don’t they know
It is because I cannot stop myself from jotting
Down a few lines when I meet the muse.
I steal from him words that I can hear ringing
Around the world, words that sing to me
So sweet a song that my heart cries out
To be included in the piece, but that is
Not allowed, so you find words that rhyme
Instead. At other times you muddle on with
Words that do not rhyme and will not In
A million years, but wait, listen to it being read
Free verse is the answer with nothing rhyming
And do you know it reads well it’s surprising
But it really can sound like it is behaving. So
Anything goes and they battle in
My head for recognition. That old
Muse likes to confuse.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Yes, all of us know what a compelling person that muse can be. Keep writing, Mike...rhyme or free...so long as your words shine. Raynette