Musings by The Poet Loriet
Summoning the Muses
Calliope sits cross-legged
on an intricately-woven
Oriental rug in the center
of the antique library.
Her glasses slide down her long narrow nose
as she surpresses a yawn.
Bathed in a dusty arc of lamplight,
she is hidden by stacks of books
and scattered historical documents.
She wears sweats and chopsticks
in her long unruly up-do.
She fights bloodshot eyes
with deep swigs of stale coffee
and burns the midnight oil.
As the sun rises, we espy
her sister, Clio, lying on a hammock
amidst the elaborate flower gardens,
eating grapes off the vine.
Rose petals rain upon her
as she caresses her musical lyre
with clouds in her eyes.
Erato lounges on a bamboo mat
shouldered by a harem of muscular men.
They fan her and spritz her
with perfumed oils.
"Speak to us of love," they beg
as she shimmies her shoulders,
bats her long eyelashes,
flips her hair and giggles.
Euterpe and Melpomene, the twin girls,
pace the grounds wringing their hands.
They always wear black,
unflattering against pale hollow faces
and severely-straight ebony hair
that graces their tiny hips.
Their sad, haunting eyes are
always poised on the verge of tears.
These fragile little flowers
always appear to be dancing
in time to a funeral dirge.
Polymnia, with her rosy red cheeks
and her apple pie smile,
hums on the porch swing,
ever-present bible in hand.
Every few minutes, she whispers,
"Praise the Lord," and smiles
a shy secret smile
that only she seems to understand.
A pink floral dress drapes her soft curves
and swirls around her petite bare feet.
Thalia chooses to keep company
with lighthearted Terpischore
who always laughs at her jokes.
The two girls are childlike
in their innocence,
touching everything around them
with laughter and song.
Others are drawn towards their light,
their honey-brown ringlets and dimples,
their beautiful inner spirits.
They gather fruits and flowers,
their mouths stained red
with traces of berry juice.
Smoky dusk befalls the secret garden.
Urania lies on a patch of grass
staring up at the sky.
She's a quiet loner;
beautiful mysterious gypsy
who writes poetry and
dreams about the moon.
She wishes she could touch it,
believing it has mystical powers
and that only the night sky
understands how she truly feels.
These nine girls are truly unique
and offer many gifts
to those who make them welcome.
I keep hoping they'll visit me.
I air out my house,
light scented candles,
keep fresh flowers on my tables--
but the only vehicle
coming down the road
is a dusty pick-up truck,
not the style the muses
are accustomed to.
I shake dust off my welcome mat
and return to my vigil
at the picture window.
I peer through lace curtains
in anticipation of the headlights
of an elegant white stretch limousine
winding its way home to me.
Lori Beal
on an intricately-woven
Oriental rug in the center
of the antique library.
Her glasses slide down her long narrow nose
as she surpresses a yawn.
Bathed in a dusty arc of lamplight,
she is hidden by stacks of books
and scattered historical documents.
She wears sweats and chopsticks
in her long unruly up-do.
She fights bloodshot eyes
with deep swigs of stale coffee
and burns the midnight oil.
As the sun rises, we espy
her sister, Clio, lying on a hammock
amidst the elaborate flower gardens,
eating grapes off the vine.
Rose petals rain upon her
as she caresses her musical lyre
with clouds in her eyes.
Erato lounges on a bamboo mat
shouldered by a harem of muscular men.
They fan her and spritz her
with perfumed oils.
"Speak to us of love," they beg
as she shimmies her shoulders,
bats her long eyelashes,
flips her hair and giggles.
Euterpe and Melpomene, the twin girls,
pace the grounds wringing their hands.
They always wear black,
unflattering against pale hollow faces
and severely-straight ebony hair
that graces their tiny hips.
Their sad, haunting eyes are
always poised on the verge of tears.
These fragile little flowers
always appear to be dancing
in time to a funeral dirge.
Polymnia, with her rosy red cheeks
and her apple pie smile,
hums on the porch swing,
ever-present bible in hand.
Every few minutes, she whispers,
"Praise the Lord," and smiles
a shy secret smile
that only she seems to understand.
A pink floral dress drapes her soft curves
and swirls around her petite bare feet.
Thalia chooses to keep company
with lighthearted Terpischore
who always laughs at her jokes.
The two girls are childlike
in their innocence,
touching everything around them
with laughter and song.
Others are drawn towards their light,
their honey-brown ringlets and dimples,
their beautiful inner spirits.
They gather fruits and flowers,
their mouths stained red
with traces of berry juice.
Smoky dusk befalls the secret garden.
Urania lies on a patch of grass
staring up at the sky.
She's a quiet loner;
beautiful mysterious gypsy
who writes poetry and
dreams about the moon.
She wishes she could touch it,
believing it has mystical powers
and that only the night sky
understands how she truly feels.
These nine girls are truly unique
and offer many gifts
to those who make them welcome.
I keep hoping they'll visit me.
I air out my house,
light scented candles,
keep fresh flowers on my tables--
but the only vehicle
coming down the road
is a dusty pick-up truck,
not the style the muses
are accustomed to.
I shake dust off my welcome mat
and return to my vigil
at the picture window.
I peer through lace curtains
in anticipation of the headlights
of an elegant white stretch limousine
winding its way home to me.
Lori Beal
Comment On This Poem ---
Summoning the Muses
Summoning the Muses
