Within The Thrall

rich the days when muse does call

tasty words are joined and fit

verses surge within the thrall

and pages spring from poet’s wit

weighty words that rhyme and transfer

a chosen meter’s pace and flow

mots of grit and grace and grandeur

gravitas bits and verbs that go

pained those days of idle keys

of writer’s block and hands gone still

curse the fates and times like these

occupied with lesser skill

out to nature and her minions

busy with their daily chores

for inspiration and opinion

and fresh air to fuel the forge

brew a cup, renew thy labours

browse thesaurus customary

read the tea leaves and the paper

and find the rhyming dictionary

fickle indeed the muse’s lot

thro’ moods by turns buoyed and glum

she brings the juice and spits the hot

and strings together pearls that hum

let all who know of words’ reluctance

resisting rhyme and symmetry

seek the patience and the guidance

to await the muse’s sympathy

hail the mistress and the medium

of all creative synergy

who, raising art above life’s tedium

with her kiss provides the means

~e