A Muse

They come in all shapes and sizes,
Muses, don't they?

While other poets hail their muses'
Grace and eternal beauty

That transform their scribblings into art
Of highest form

I must confess my muse is rather old and wrinkled
Hands like hams and with a crooked knee

No ethereal nymph, my muse,
But rather stout around the middle

Is not impressed with very much at all,
Yet always open to something new

Will read my lines with a grin and a sardonic twinkle
But never mock or taunt

And doing so has given me the greatest
Gift of all

The courage to be me.

Poetry by Åsa Andersson
Read 587 times
Written on 2014-08-11 at 20:06

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
No scribbling here. This is very well written. Your muse should be proud.

Hats off to you, your final line says it all.

I wonder is it's those damned interfering muses that are the true cause of writer's block :). Glad to hear that your muse is so grandmotherly and supportive. Mine is a smart-ass.

Bob The PoetBay support member heart!

How fortunate you are! There's no better muse than one who encourages you to be you! Beautiful writing.

Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Write on oh Poetess Eternal :)

The courage to be me.

very simple in its form but i think it's true, it's a journey to become oneself

i have enjoyed the read