The Wrong Muse
The wrong Muse assaulted me today.
I have frequently been attacked by Thalia,
I get on quite well with Melpomene
and have longed to become acquainted with Calliope,
but I was attacked by Euterpe today.
I know that sometimes the Muses will come out of
nowhere,
and they don’t always wait for us to call upon them
like the poets of old would have us to believe,
but I think she made a mistake.
She must have visited the wrong person.
I am a poet—
I love to make people laugh at the silliness of life
and twist their hearts with lines of tragedy—
I am not a musician.
So why did a song suddenly appear
fully formed in my head this morning?
Why does it play on a loop?
What cruel trick of fate is this?
Am I meant to doubt my identity
when I thought I finally figured out who I am?
I tried telling Euterpe
that she had the wrong woman,
but then the music in my head was not alone;
It had lyrics to accompany it.
I’ve tried writing it down,
But I am not a musician.
I don’t know one note from another,
and I’m having to stumble along,
Hoping that I’ll find the right notes
Before they are lost forever.
I am petrified.
The wrong Muse assaulted me,
and I am afraid she’ll be back.
Please send Calliope in your stead!
I am not a musician, but a humble poet,
and I long for the days when phrases upon phrases
would run around in my head,
and I could turn the music off whenever I wanted to.
The music was a break,
a release,
a place for inspiration
where I could find the words that so often elude me.
Now I have been inspired to write music,
and I am lost.
I am a poet, not a musician,
But it seems Euterpe has other ideas.
The Permanent Stain
The stain will not come out.
I first saw it on my glove, but when I took it off,
it was still there.
An impish monster, mocking me.
I began to wash my hands, but still
it would not come out.
I poured an ocean of soap onto my hands
and used water so hot that it could have melted his face off,
but it was still there.
It spread over my hands the way a wine stain will spread over a rug.
Both hands were a deep red,
and the faucet was gushing blood.
I did not cry.
My lips were sewn shut,
but the servants came and dragged me away from the sink.
I tried to show them the stain, but they pretended not to see it.
How can they stand it?
It’s still there.
My hands are bandaged, and I can’t untie them.
I know this because I stayed awake all night trying.
I pulled until I was sure my hands would come off,
but I must have left all my energy in that bloody sink.
I haven’t heard from him in days.
All I have is this stain,
and it’s still there.
Colorado Weather
People get so excited as the seasons change;
mostly for Fall because of the pumpkin spice that is seemingly everywhere.
I’m pretty sure I breathe pumpkin spice at that time of the year.
But guess what?
I’m Colorado, and I don’t believe in seasons.
I’ll make it hail in June
and then set the state on fire a week later
because I can.
While everyone prays for rain all summer long, I’ll hold back.
I’ll provide plenty of smoke and heat,
and then I’ll return to my personal vendetta of humiliating the weather people--
seriously, when will they decide that I’m too unpredictable and give up?
Get a real job, you crack fortunetellers!
Then I’ll unleash all the rain in September and flood the state
because I can.
I’m Colorado--I do what I want.
I’ll make the temperature drop fifty degrees in twenty-four hours
and then warm everything up
so that people will start to question the cold front even came through
and doubt their sanity.
Hahaha!
I’ll make it snow in May--so much for learning in those last few weeks of school--
and change the humidity so fast your head will spin.
Cause I’m Colorado!
© Taryn Miller
