Is there in point of fact a muse
set to accuse or yet excuse,
an approbation?
need I concur to win life's prize
or realize what else applies
in rhyme creation.

To ponder this might one be blessed
forsaking rest to pass a test
through aggravation.
The poet's world one of romance,
the slightest chance, will make words dance
in animation.

The life existing on a page,
not to enrage but just engage
so take your station.
Now drink your fill of verse today
of forms that play and almost pray,
emancipation..

To write's a rite, and it's all right
if no one reads today, tonight...
perhaps next year.
It's not for them; I'm working out
my dark emotions and my doubt...
sometimes my fear.

Betimes my writing flows with love
as though it's something from above...
but oft mundane.
So whether beauty blooms, or gunk
leaves ugly stains, or it seems funk,
I'll pen again.

Oh, you can pretty much be rest assured I read MM posts daily.

Love these!!! Keep going - pleasure to read. Now, if my own muse will oblige me one of the days, I'll write too!

HUGZ
~Cleo

To pen for gain is futile chore
without redress and oft a bore;
to write or read.
As Daniel says, “Write for release
from fear or pain.” It gives one peace
when we succeed
in baring souls or telling whence
our heartaches came. It’s our defense
which liberates
the mind and muse to tell or show
emotions, bared. When we let go
it dissipates.

DE-capitate haiku, cinquain
and senryu and once again
some other forms.
LARGE LETTERS can intimidate
or simply seem to overstate;
the small transform

informally and leave but words
and punctuation. It's absurd,
but still it's true;
simplicity is more complex
at bringing out the fine affects
or paint them blue.

To paint words blue is a mistake
In doleful thoughts to ruminate
on woeful ways.
There's beauty in a world of light
where every dream is clear and bright,
for sunny days

Now if you see us down the street
where happy people come to meet
and congregate
Remember it is always true
that there's a place reserved for you
so don't be late.

Of late my foot will scream with pain,
then settle down, then shriek again;
the ache is red.
No need to paint pain's words with blue;
they come that way. Perhaps you too
have tears to shed.

When walking in another's shoes,
one feels that want to sing the blues
no matter that
a place is waiting down the street
to join with those with happy feet....
For now, sing scat.

They scat and I sing by myself!
This forlorn song, ill-gotten pelf,
which wasn’t sought
but it’s a lonely place to be.
I would desist if I could see
what others brought

to share with us, the winnowed few
who post and wish that others do
or might have done.
My muse is bloodied but unbowed
and I shall write until that shroud
blocks out the fun.

Block out the sun with piles of verse
about your blues, how things are worse
for you than me...
or look about with thankful thought,
how you have much that you've not sought.
Your eyes will see

amazing things when you but peek
out from the dark, to merely seek
a ray of light.
Allow your mind to grasp upon
some bird or rabbit on your lawn.
Give thanks for sight.

I’m always thankful for my sight
and all the beauty seen, bedight
with wonderment
and I would share in florid verse
with prose or poetry immerse
the time that’s spent

alone while walking through the woods.
Pretend I’m one of Robin Hood’s
small group of thieves
but walking through these empty halls
where sharing flourished, silence falls
like autumn’s leaves.

Were I prolific with my posts
I’d fill each room, scare out the ghosts
which haunt them now
but I am not. Effort and age
and also time’s whispers presage
play’s closing bow.

I too am weary of the dearth
of signs that there may be rebirth
of interplay.
I feel a weight my eyes can't bear
of gazing here and reading there
to then display
some cogent thought of what I read;
unfocused mind so oft impedes
all my attempts.
I try to sweep the cobwebs out;
frustration tends to feed my doubts;
my mind's unkempt.

An un-crimped mind where words may flow
ensconce the page with thoughts you know
that must be shared
gives impetus to halting hand.
Each vision helps you understand
nothing is spared
when you must write, fill an abyss
until there's no more room. The bliss
you feel inside
is like a mighty ocean wave
which sculpts its world. Restraint can't save
talent denied.

Talons denied, she swooped once more;
success... then off to fledglings soar
with beaks agape.
She hoped her mate was coming soon
with food enough to last 'till noon
when heat will drape
the meadow with a fiery shroud
and all the animals will crowd
in cooling shade.
Their chicks should sleep in sated peace
until their hunger pangs increase
for death's parade.

Today it seems I cannot write
of anything that isn't trite;
it's how it is!
So this is all yer gonna git
'till I have time ta think an' sit
ta git some fizz.

Ta get some fizz just shake the can;
don’t set it on some soft divan
to cogitate.
It matters not if what you write
may be considered merely trite
for posts abate
and if we stop they’ll be no more.
Someone may close and lock the door
and I don’t want
to move elsewhere. A strange venue
may not appreciate the new
forms which now haunt
these halls. Cobwebs aren’t woven steel
and me, I plan to stay until
some folks return
to fill the void. So limber up
your mind and fingers. Fill the cup
with words which burn.

No words are burning presently;
some bubble up, and then they flee
to fertile minds
who turn the nicely, painting well
a picture... and a story tell...
the whole world finds.

The whole world finds its nose is near
a talking box’s gloss veneer
that was a phone
but now it’s changed all human kind
and never can be left behind.
Some may condone
the lack of social life or couth
which was confined to wooden booth
in privacy
but now that blatant “in your face”
has fast become more than a trace
of lunacy.

Does lunacy have dark and light...
so hides in daylight? shows at night?
tells jokes and scares?
Does it reflect, and does it moon
o'er difficulties? Does it soon
stare down the stairs?

To stare at stairs won’t motivate
nor will no movement escalate
you up or down
but steps on steppes will see you rise
above the crowds who compromise
their own renown.
It matters not the path you take
to reach your goal. Express that ache
which lies within
the heart and mind; bids you express
your thoughts in words. Perhaps they’ll bless
or bring a grin.

To bring a grin, I came to play
with words and thoughts, I couldn’t say
where it would lead
or who it might just motivate.
I hope I didn’t come too late
to intercede
and save this thread from surest doom
within the depths of Karnak’s room.
Seems I’m the last
to post a Logarhyme in here
for it’s been longer than a year
and I’m aghast
that no one’s come with anything
to liven up this lonely string.
“Hello out there!”
Have all forgotten this sweet site
and let it fade into the night
with naught to share?