The Missing MuseThe Missing Muse
I'm waiting, vainly for the muse,
The highly-strung, elusive muse,
Who, in a kinder frame of mind,
Will nurture and encourage me
And give me lovely, lilting words,
Hypnotic rhythms, lively rhymes,
Alliteration, assonance,
Magic metres, stunning scans,
Play music to my every word,
Paint pictures in each pregnant pause,
Make my words shine like sparkling stars
And perfume every syllable.

I wait frustrated, not amused
By the muses fickleness,
Her wayward inconsistency,
Her bothersome evasiveness,
Her tiresome lack of loyalty,
That leaves my words quite colourless.
I search in vain for scan and rhyme,
For rhythm, metre, assonance,
For musical and perfumed words,
Evocative and touching words,
Lit by the warming Summer Sun,
But all my words are cold and dull.

I search my consciousness to find
The place wherein the muse resides,
I venture through my memory,
To seek her secret hiding place,
But I can find no sight or sound
To indicate where she has been,
No pointers signs or signals show
What destination she pursues,
And so I search and search again,
The deep recesses of my mind,
For clues as to her whereabouts,
So I can beg her to return.

A tiny, blinding flash of light
Illuminates a memory,
And I remember where and when
The muse and I worked hand-in-mind,
Our last collaboration was
A poem full of vehemence,
A poem still unfinished as
She left me and has not returned,
The illustrated poem's draft
I archived to remove the risk,
Of losing it. That's it! The muse
Is hiding somewhere on a disc.

She's skulking silently, somewhere
Fluttering faintly, holed up tight,
Between 'Ode to the salt sea air'
And point five of a megabyte,
She's wilfully evading me,
Laughing at my ineptitude,
Deliberately teasing me
With trite and rhyming platitude.
I search and search and search again,
In box, in case, on shelf, on rack,
Convinced that I will find her, then
Cajole, persuade or drag her back.

My patience is long gone, I fear,
My tolerance is at an end,
I need the muse beside me here,
Lest to doggerel I descend.
O.K.! That's it! I've had enough!
Come out, come out, where'er you are,
Without you writing's much too tough,
This cliché-ed crap has gone too far!
I'm waiting, straining for the muse,
The teasing, taunting, mocking muse,
Who, having had her fill of fun,
Will reappear and rescue me!

© Lynne Joyce