by Bill Bowler
I, myself, don’t understand,
but when I write, the Muse moves closer,
understands me, takes my hand
and, though I scarcely know her,
lays her head against my shoulder.
My expressive and
associative faculties inexplicably expand...
But suddenly my heart goes cold:
”Such poetry is nice, but trite.
Before it’s told, the tale sounds old,
like bread grown stale before it’s sold.”
Anxiety, continuing, insinuates that I
am blind to Life and its demands,
and Life insists that all my plans
are dreams disguised,
are walls of sand against the tide,
hollow monuments to pride
that cannot stand.
And so I wait and hesitate
and hesitate, upset inside,
about to break, unable to decide,
when Memory’s persuasive daughter
presses closer to my side
and answers me with fantasy.
Her voice is sweet,
her touch is soft and light,
and promises delight.