Sunday, December 6, 2015


                    Beside my bed, dropped on the floor, are slips
                    Of paper, notes I jotted in the dark
                    Containing doubtless poem-provoking tips
                    Delivered by my night-time Muse to spark,
                    When I have blithely risen in the morn,
                    A poem that I’d soon sit down to write,
                    And this is how so many poems are born,
                    But sometimes notes I’ve scribbled in the night
                    Are indecipherable and all for naught,
                    And nothing’s left to do but to lament
                    The loss of that night-Muse inspired thought
                    And cudgel my own brain then to invent
                         A verse that’s uninspired by the Muse,
                         Hence one that doesn’t soar but trots ensues.