Sing Goddess Sing.

How classical epics began – a quick evocation to the muse; and I thought it quite apt, given my present state of mind.

                                     Sing Goddess

                            When old new beginnings

                            lay ruined about my feet,

                            I find myself forgetting,

                            and in forgetting I find,

                            drifting leaves of memory –

                            whispering through my mind.

                            Then it is I seek the place

                            where she patiently waits,

                            still waiting in my dreams,

                            from out of the dark stream.

                            Now every day is rubbing me away,

                            as the years are multiplying behind me;

                            and for every squandered hour,

                            the inspiration now turns sour,

                            as the muse declines to stay;

                            and the rhyme slowly slips away,

                            falling – over the falls, to the

                            silent pool of the minds decay.

                            And if this skin is all that I’m in,

                            then why should I put more in the sack?

                            What if I’m just a broken jug – a crack

                            In its side – from which no voice elides?

                            Or maybe I’m just a rusty old tin;

                            a place to hide unfinished verses in.

                            But poets do, as poets always must,

                            until time shall confine us all to dust,

                            and our dreams lay unrevealed

                            until we are all long forgotten.

                            So, sing Goddess – sing, and I shall

                            try to catch the rhyme on the wind,

                            to shrill this old skin; and I’ll be bolder

                            to dig yet another hole in water.            

                                                                     © D G Moody 2021