Where is my muse tonight, now that the sun
has set and the porcelain moon is on the wane?
When did I lose her, requiring this search
through corked bottles and potholed streets?
What fabric is draped along her lithe curves,
languishing on some other couch or bed?
Who is she inspiring now with her winks
and tapered fingernail intent?
Why did she leave my mind bereft of poetic trickery,
a sky without stars, only able to ask unanswerable questions?
And how can I entice her back to my right arm?
(My muse tonight was Stacey C. Johnson of Breadcrumbs, who inspired this poem, as well as my prompt for Living Poetry. Of course, my regular weekly muse, Sammi Cox, played her part as well. I encourage all my readers to attempt this poetic exercise.)

I love the allure of your verse.
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You’re too kind. Thank you, K.
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Well this is brilliant. We’ve all felt this way (or something along these lines at least) about inspiration, and writing about it so well somehow shows that the “muse” is there all along, and the very moment and its deep appreciation is what coaxes it into helping us write such a beautifully-written poem as this one, if we are lucky, or attentive enough, that is… congrats!!
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Thank you very much, Lia! Isn’t funny how writing about not being able to write can still produce good poetry?
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Yes exactly! Sometimes the best kind!
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I think you did entice her back to your right arm. Wonderful, Bartholomew.
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Thank you, Kate. I hope she sticks around.
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If she’s like mine, she sneaks away from time to time but always comes back. So far.
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Great images. I really liked “tapered fingernail intent”. Oh, and I am a believer that all questions are unanswerable. :)
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Thanks, LuAnne! I totally agree.
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Gorgeous poem!
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Thanks, Dawn! It turned out nicely.
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