I Don’t Want an Ethics Inquiry, Avandia, or an Immigrant List…Just a Muse!

Practice does not, sorry to say, make perfect. It only makes permanent. (I think it was that great coach John Wooden who said this, or it may have been Jack Pickard, another great coach). Either way, sometimes a good old muse would sure come in handy. I know, I know, mostly it’s: Sit in the chair. Stare at the paper. Sweat blood. And I’m willing to do this. But once or twice? A visit from a muse? How about it?  Which brings up this poem.

First let me reassure you girls:

I will not make the same mistake as that king,

the one who named his nine daughters after you all

and then proposed a contest to see who was the best singer, dancer, writer, rhymer…

Remember him?

His bravado got the family turned into

magpies and jackdaws.

I have no time to challenge Muses.

What is it that I do, you ask?

I daydream,

woolgather,

cogitate,

contemplate,

deliberate,

meditate,

mull,

ponder,

ruminate.

To no avail.

May I call upon a Muse, any of you?

To inspire me?

What’s that you say?

You only come to those of us who

keep our butts in our chairs and sweat blood?

Well, how about a little ancient alchemy then?

Something to transmute my words

from less than noble into gold.

Are you Bemused?

Amused?

Not me.

I’m Defused.              (Patty 7/15/10)