POETIC BLOOMINGS is a Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild site established in May 2011 to nurture and inspire the creative spirit.


The last bit of business we enacted before our month long journey through Poet Camp, was a discussion entitled: WHAT MOVES YOUR MUSE?

To reconvene the Sunday Seed and return to a bit of normalcy (yes, a relative term around these parts), we will delve further. As creative people of various disciplines, we speak of our muse. Today, write a poem describing what your muse looks like. Give it a name, a face, physical characteristics. Breathe life into your muse, and it will stick around and serve you well!




You are such a pretty thing and you sing
to my soul. You are in control; in charge
of the bilge I proffer as poetic verse.
It could be worse. It could be your brother
that directs my expression. But with each session
you are the reason beauty fills my space.

You make this a wonderful place. A space
where we make my words dance and sing
the praises of the face you present. There’s no messin’
with finely turned phrases. With you in charge
my words ring like no other.
You inject your pulchritude through my rhythmic verse.

You are forever thirty-nine, and I’m fine that your verse
is ageless. I stand still in your shadow trying to keep pace
with the inspiration you offer. You are never a bother,
because your voice sounds like an aria sung;
you are the swell of sweetness waiting to barge
into the room and lift my gloom and despair. My confession:

I love all that you do to lead me through every productive session,
snippets of time where seeds of thought flourish in verse.
You are  demure, yet have the power to overcome; to charge
forward in expression with verve. Your fragrance fills this space.
The gentle trace of your fingers holds no sting.
Every visit with you is a joy! This boy is enamored like no other.

I have spent lurid evenings caressing your softness, just another
suitor with a love for your movements. You are a lesson
to be studied and learned, knowledge that will bring
us closer still. You will lead me to the brink. You will nurse
me to vitality, a reality forged in my mind. A vacuous space
filled with the wealth of words you place in my charge.

Your eyes become my vision. They become large
with the wonder around you. I have found you a seductress like no other.
I am comforted by your tender embrace.
You are a curse and a blessing.
More blessing than curse.
But you make this duet we do something worth singing.

Oh Valentina Sestina! My words sing when you’re in charge.
You give my verse life! Where you revive, your brother would smother
me. This is a beautiful space when you’re in session.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


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106 thoughts on “PROMPT # 161 – “HIGHLY A-MUSED”

  1. You should hang on to that muse – she’s a good influence! 🙂 I like the way you play with your key words.

  2. William Preston on said:

    Wow, Walt. What an ambitious and marvellous beginning.

  3. William Preston on said:


    Martha Music, copiously curved,
    makes melodies of worthless words
    and when she sees the birds and bees
    she seizes images that please

    and transforms all of them into
    fortuitous forms and might enthuse
    some readers travelling from home
    throughout the gloaming via my poems.

    Through it all, her glowing radiance
    eschews all subtlety and gradients;
    she is a beacon in my life:
    a glimpse of grace toward whom I strive.

    copyright 2014, William Preston

  4. Walt – wow, because of the poem and more for the form

    My Muse
    She’s a flash of light,
    a scent of mint,
    an ion of ups and downs
    a brilliant sunset
    after the dreary
    a particle of reason
    after the leery
    she’s memory and experience
    dredged up from the tar pits
    she’s blitz and then quit
    full of laughter and tears
    She’s a paradox
    a conundrum
    a saint and a clown.
    She’ll buoy you up
    then let you down
    stay for a year
    then leave you in tears
    She sees with my eyes
    hears with my ears
    she beds in my head
    she is me, I am her
    albumen and yolk
    a poke, a stoke
    a gentle stroke
    my muse.


    In dead of night when dreams possess the mind,
    You poets soundly separate yourselves
    From mundane chores to seek what you can find
    By way of inspiration, words on shelves,
    A line to start a poem, a rhyme or two.
    Abscond you will with treasured verbal gold
    That paved the streets of dream, their flowered dew.
    Awake, you race to pen what dreams have told.
    Erato, Muse in gown of blue, I stand
    Prepared to aid impoverished poets write
    Your hearts in metered verse, a helping hand
    So poems from dreams can climb up to the light.
    I place word kisses from the muse you serve
    Upon your lips: an honor much deserved.


  6. connielpeters on said:

    Like My Cat

    My muse is like my crazy Snicker’s cat
    At times she’s full of energy and zest
    At times she curls up on my lap to rest

    Persistent and demanding little brat
    A nuisance and a quirky, silly pest
    My muse is like my crazy Snicker’s cat
    At times she’s full of energy and zest

    She comes on her own terms, and that is that
    When she is full and fat she’s at her best
    She’s beautiful, but often acts possessed
    My muse is like my crazy Snickers cat
    At times she’s full of energy and zest
    At times she curls up on my lap to rest

  7. Priti on said:

    My muse is a nifty, drifty, chameleon
    with a leafy skirt and a cotton chin
    She’s a bud that still stuck to the ground
    a little shy, a simple sound
    She paints her face with sunset hues
    and floats in ocean’s mist for views
    She’s upside down, and inside out
    and loves to hide in caves of sprouts
    When nighttime comes she just transforms
    those starry swirls, into sweet psalms
    She’s Columbus, being pulled by rhyme
    searching still,– for a perfect chime

  8. Ethereal Sprite

    Behind a veil of mist
    grace dances
    with melancholy walks
    thoughts caress,

    until they flow
    onto the paper.

    I’m alone,
    stuck in this world
    unable to part the veils
    and when I fear all is lost
    I’ll hear a giggle…

    and an imp
    will appear
    to tickle
    and tease,
    blowing the cobwebs clear
    and we will walk
    side by side
    and I’ll listen
    as my lady in grey

  9. Lurid evenings with sestinas. Oh, Walt.

    description of my non-belief

    a fallow field
    and by the light and color, late.
    Or maybe, early. And April.
    Late or early by the light and April.
    Though it could be October
    June or January. It’s a fallow field
    for god’s sake and the trees
    are over there, way off, on hills
    and look like the backs of grazing geese
    or turkeys; or may be the backs
    of bison, geese, or turkeys and the real
    hills are behind us. Cats of varying
    size and appetite, flicking details, tips
    of detail like autonomic tics.

  10. Darlene Franklin on said:


    Once upon a time my muse was black
    Her brand’s harsh heat marked me hers
    Coal-dark eyes lasered my memories
    Rearranging slices of pain as art
    Red spilled down her ebony arms
    Her lifeblood filling my pen
    Raven tresses wrapped around me
    The cocoon a safe place to write and feel

    I emerge from my cocoon to find my muse has changed
    My golden years have turned to silver
    Black cotton threads are now shiny silk
    Her dress, a metallic sheen, robes her crooked back
    Beauty and strength shine from her shrunken form
    Poetry drips from silver-tipped fingernails
    Painting images formerly frozen as prose
    Penny dreadful words now polished utensils

  11. your (W)alter ego has a wonderful name. Valentina Sestina made me smile.

  12. Pingback: A Musing One | Metaphors and Smiles

  13. A Musing One

    She’s flit of dragon flying
    iridescent – lightning quick
    and just as swift as summer,
    time slipping-beyond gripping.

    She’s a girl and her dog – faithful
    a walk – wild of field flowering
    forest of trees towering,
    embrace of rich-ridged-trunk.

    She’s the mist-veiled-mountain
    it’s crystal-cascading-fountain
    a whisper-trickle-stream
    drop of water in wide-salted-ocean.

    She’s the under-down secret space
    power in flight-feathers
    winged one beating –
    breathing its way across the page.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014


    When prompts don’t inspire,
    she comes to set fire under
    me. Rolling like thunder,
    she’ll eagerly plunder the vast
    experience amassed
    in my present and past. She’s kind,
    but she’s never too blind
    as to not see the bind I’m in
    when the words don’t begin.
    She’ll get under my skin until
    I move my keyboard quill
    and return to the thrill I feel
    when my thoughts become real.
    She will channel her zeal through me
    until I’ve broken free,
    touching the poetry inside.
    She hasn’t denied desire
    nor will she, as guide, retire.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  15. Pingback: Sooze Muse | Words With Sooze

  16. My Muse

    I am so amused
    When my muse tickles my brain
    Soon to be bemused
    As the brainwaves quickly change
    Not surprised at all
    My muse tends to be insane
    Much the same as me

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

  17. amusing poem …made me smile at the last two lines cause I recognize myself there too.

  18. William Preston on said:


    defines my muse:
    whenever I peruse
    verse, it gets enthusiastic
    for blues.

    copyright 2014, William Preston

  19. Darlene Franklin on said:


    My peek-a-boo muse
    May step on my shoes
    Wake up and pay attention
    Carpe diem! Write
    While my lamp stays bright
    Now is the time for action

    Her play dulls my fears
    Poof! She disappears
    A Cheshire-cat grin all that stays
    Words come on a string
    One, two, three poems spring
    She’ll come back another day

  20. Well, I am certainly glad my piece does not follow yours, Walt. WOW!

  21. Ariana

    Wrapped in layers of lilac-
    printed silk shawls that drape
    in folds to the floor,
    she is Ariana, a vision,
    illusive, ethereal. Sea-scented,
    smoky black hair, waves
    down her back, where
    a hint of a green
    fin is sometimes visible.
    As a mermaid, she encourages
    me to explore other worlds,
    allowing all possibilities
    limited only by the stretched
    canvas corners of my imagination.

  22. Okra Thoughts

    She’s absent from the okra.
    Tuesday’s okra. That is fine.
    I cannot just ‘demand’ that she be here.
    She’s sleeping in, she chose to sleep,
    despite my unction whispered in her ear.
    And that’s okay, I’ll pick alone.

    So, as I bend and clip the tender ones,
    I take the large, too-tough ones too.
    Undeserving to be fried or boiled, I cut them off.
    They steal the juice that flows,
    bound for remaining younger pods.

    I have saved some back for seed.
    So now I drop these undeserved,
    unwanted pods upon the ground,
    as bandits such as coons and deer
    may take them first
    and leave the plants alone.

    Left too long, these upright thoughts.
    I missed them when I picked before,
    on days when first tall stalks began to bear,
    when I thought plenty was enough
    and didn’t care to look too well,
    not thinking I might miss a few.

    They grew too large before I knew
    that they were there.
    I may have missed the harvest of what would have been a bushel more,
    maybe two, that I let grow too long.

    Oh, the throng of waste when I let
    my dear muse sleep in!
    You see, she doesn’t like the dew of early morning.
    That is when I tend to pick,
    my steaming mug of coffee sitting on the gatepost,
    but my muse asleep.

    I let her sleep. I can’t depend
    upon a dreaming muse to rise and help me choose my thoughts.
    There are some risks to picking early,
    Still, I choose to walk in heavy dew.
    Later, as she finds what I bring in,
    my delight will rise like morning
    in her waking, sleepy smile.

    (c) Damon Dean, 2014

  23. Walt, this was an appropriate prompt for me, to wake me AND my summer-slumbering muse. I loved your offering, and particularly your confession/recognition that your muse is “demure, but with the power to overcome.” No wonder they are characterized as female. I succumb, because I must.

  24. Unicorn Muse

    She’s seduced by the seasons.

    Beguiled by winter’s crystalline craft.
    Pleased by autumn wildflowers
    popping up in unexpected places.
    Delighted by summer’s delectable treats.
    Teased by spring scents borne on the breeze.
    Charmed by cardinals, tickled by chipmunks, she’s

    elusive: filtered sunlight,
    luminescent fireflies,
    mystical moonlight,
    morning glory magic.

    She doesn’t come when called.
    Won’t be beckoned. Only appears
    at improbable moments.

    Evanescent, evasive, she hovers
    ever primed for escape —
    butterfly, hummingbird, damselfly.
    Mayhap a chimera?

    Or maybe,
    more like a unicorn:
    wild, untamed, unbroken.
    She won’t be roped and ridden.
    Unsubstantiated creature.
    A wholly mythical beast –

    unless you believe.


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  26. I’m a little late to the game but this was too good of a prompt to pass up. 🙂 Here’s mine: http://poeticbloomings.com/2014/08/03/prompt-161-highly-a-mused/#comments

  27. MY MUSE IS

    Kardashian on a good day
    exposed to the world of feasting eyes

    Yet six feet deep on a bad day
    costumed as poet, so ill-disguised

    Hopefully sexy with epic attitude
    but oftentimes lethargic, lacking latitude

    As Mother Nature, so unpredictable, strikes like flu, and just as despicable

    A flying fantasy such as Peter Pan
    but with less will than, I know I can, I know I can

    An old grasshopper with a chronic limp, a fly without wings, or unagile chimp

    Like fidgeting fingers that flop without hand, or a pair of apt lips gipped without demand

    Like a hobbling old man
    that bears arthritic confidence
    yet he still stands
    in the midst

    So is my muse

    Benjamin Thomas

  28. I struggled with this one because I don’t really feel like I have a “muse.” At least not to the point I could write about her/him/it. Then I heard a quote today in a movie…something like, “…until you’ve known love, you’ll never be a poet.” And I realized that, to an extent, love is my muse. Love in so many forms. This poem really is only a first exploration of such…so, in an effort to post my weekly offering (though very late!), here is my muse:


    I look at
    the world around me
    and I see
    love. It’s not
    always hearts and butterflies.
    It can look like hate.

    It can look
    like sadness. And yes,
    sometimes love
    looks like a
    simple smile shared by strangers.
    Love is abundant.

    I look, I see love
    In all forms.
    And love finds
    its way into words, and words
    find their way right here.

  29. Pingback: Love Is A-Musing | echoes from the silence

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