It is the hour
When from the boughs
The nightingale’s high note
Damn it! Oh god!
That’s Byron (I say)
The words are not mine
It sounded so good
I thought it inspired
Now I’m depressed
I need something new
To express how I feel
Since I met you
Yet each time I write
And think “that sounds cool!”
Turns out it’s something
I studied in school
I’ll try it again
Breathe deep and stay calm
Let my mind work its magic
Imagination, come on
Calling Erato
Oh Muse, are you there?
Help me create now
STC’s dome in air
That sunniest dome!
Those caves made of ice!
Move those who read me
To circle me thrice . . .
And I’m off again
Channeling masters
When ingenuity
Is what I’m after
Words to convey
The chime in my heart
Ringing true with my love
Rendered mute when we part
The ends of Being
And ideal Grace
Put to use in my old griefs
With my childhood’s faith
Damn it, again
That wasn’t me
How did you get in there,
Elizabeth B.?
Perhaps for tonight
I should let my pen rest
There’s always tomorrow
And so, to bed.
