My muse,
that hot ephemeral connection
to the magic
hidden twixt my thoughts,
comes out to play at
inconvenient times.

When it's there I am a wizard,
casting wordy spells
like nets across my screen,
reeling in the meanings
with my calloused hands,
unclean
unpolished,
unadulterated
unachieved,
undeniably unsure
under the sheen.

When it's absent I'm


bereft.


Then on the page I'll see a sage,
a poem penned; respected friend's
unveiling mystery,
and on into the electronic ether
I will type,
and snipe,
and coddle,
modelling the meddlesome inventions
masked by meter's
stale touch
and my mixed up intentions.

Unto the crowds these spouting clouds
of dreams will find their way;
the only way I pray,
the fundamental
fright that my insight might go astray
and cast alight the pyre of blight
that burns my sight away.

These passages of freedom
are my pond'rings
writ for you,
to think about,

or just to misconstrue.