Finding My Muse

Do poets pay homage to a muse—
invoke by asking for help? HELP!
I need inspiration. I have not studied
the nine muses of Greek mythology.

Where are they?

Today, I ask the epic muse
to help me find my heroes.
The muse of tragedy suffers
because of social degradation and divisive
politicians who destroy America.
Maybe I'll find the muse of lyre music
to set a mood. The muse of hymns
goes to my mother's house. I know,
I can hear her humming. Last summer,
the muse of dance performed Pow-Wow's
in full costume—in blistering heat.
The muse of comedy plays on TV,
just watch the Hollywood crowd.

Where do I fit? Am I like Urania
the celestial muse, cosmic
poet of the heavens, sings lyrics
while holding a globe and compass?
My muse is with life on earth,
wind, trees, birds and sea,
air, light, moons, sun and poetry.
Though I have little clue about the cosmos,
I enjoy gazing at night's endless sky
to marvel at stars and search for UFOs.

On a Park Bench

Bold was he the hungry beggar—
expressive perched soul. Too close,
I feared the worst. Remember
the horror film, The Birds?

Sleek was he in shiny dark
blue-black, slick as oil,
breezes flickered his long tail
like a smoker taps a cigarette.
Patient, gregarious grackle's
beady black eyes spoke volumes
without words between us.

How has God provided for him?
Maybe picnickers left no food,
or seeds too hard to find—
and the voice above did ask of me.

I pinched my sandwich, breaking
bread, as at the Lord's Supper
and raised it to his eye level,
he hip, hopped, danced a bop
fluttered and flapped, flipped and flew
fetching thrown food on the grass.
I did my deed for the day.