A MuseThey 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
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Written on 2014-08-11 at 20:06
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