Cedar’s disclaimer: I am not a poet. This is strictly for fun, and should not be considered a serious attempt at poesy.
Disclaimer the second: I blame the Evil Muse for this.
Twas the day before Christmas, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse.
I sat at the keyboard, fingers poised in the air,
Waiting and wondering if my muse would be there.
The teens were all quiet with earphones on heads,
The pre-teen was napping with dog in their beds;
And the spouse was all settled with Kindle in hand,
so I could finally write my book’s last stand.
When out in the drive arose such a clamour,
I sprang from my desk to see who had the hammer.
I swore to myself as I ran to the door,
Wond’ring how my family such a noise could ignore.
I grasped the doorknob and felt it melt away
At my touch, revealing a landscape so gray
My eyes strained to make out any detail at all.
Slowly, I could see something through the mist, so small
And then it was there in front of me, so quick
I jumped back and knew it wasn’t St. Nick.
It must be my muse! Finally, he had come
And I whistled, and shouted, and offered him rum.
He was riding in a convertible sleigh, jet-powered
And when he landed in front of me it towered
Over me and the door hissed out on hydraulics
Making me rub my eyes and wonder about alcoholics.
He was dressed in a space suit, a chrome one that made me gulp
And I opened my mouth to point out I wasn’t writing pulp,
But he laid his finger alongside his nose with a wink,
And I shut my mouth again and wished for a drink.
His eyes – full of starlight and empty as the universe – twinkled brightly
The cheeks were pale, the lips turned up tightly.
The helmet concealed any sign of a beard,
Overall, I decided, my muse was quite weird.
He held a bag in one hand, and now that he’s down,
He held up the other, and opened it with a frown.
From it he pulled, with a shake and a wiggle,
Something like an anemone that just made me giggle.
He looked up at me, and gave me a shake of his head
Before putting it back, then pulling an envelope out instead.
Without a word, just a wink of his eye,
He handed it to me, and leaped back to the sky.
I stood there, gaping, and ere he was out of sight
I heard him call out: To all a good night!
I looked at the card in my hand and unsealed,
Opening it slowly to my eyes it revealed…
The plot to my novel! I sprang back to my desk,
My husband, befuddled; my teens, statuesque.
My fingers were flying, and I shouted ‘Thank you!’
As Christmas was coming and my muse had come through.
Now that that’s out of my system… I have a question for you, gentle readers. As the New Year is approaching, what would you like to see more of here at the Mad Genius Club? Any how-to’s you are in need of? Tips, tricks, and ideas? Let us know in the comments! And if you’re looking for a last-minute gift, remember, ebooks are easy to give, and don’t require a dedicated ebook reader, they can be read on a phone, or a tablet, or a computer, or…
Hope he stops by here and kicks my Muse out from under the bed where she’s been de-stressing. All she’s sent for weeks is a bloody werewolf. I really wasn’t planning on a werewolf as the MC for . . . anything. And a plot would be nice too. You know? Just the werewolf is totally insufficient.
You would think that just a werewolf would be enough, but no…
I’m still waiting for the writing switch to rest to ‘on’ after the last couple of weeks. I’ve been reading, hopefully that will help!
Not even a clue about who cooked up nanites for a werewolf? Maybe he’s a domesticated wolf; a hellhound changed by a lonely witch.
Pondering a donkey shifter, someone who can really make an [equus africanus asinus] of himself.
I know of a lot of pundits and “public intellectuals” who are working hard toward making that transition, but none who have succeeded in getting past the two-legged form.
He’s an orphan, looking for his roots. Judging by the opening scene I got this morning, it’s not going to go well.
So you were simultaneously be-mused and a-mused! I suggest you ask Other Half to com-muse-erate with you . . .
He’s good at that… too.
Ah, Christmas muse-ic.
we could rearrange that into mu-sick… might fit my poetry better.
LOL! *I* enjoyed it! 🙂 I have plenty of muse, now I need to plant myself at the computer and write!
Oh yes: I don’t have a muse; I have a mu-sick. Went into Wallyworld early yesterday morning, saw some magazine that said “The Secrets of Rogue One,” and at first glance thought it was “The Victoria Secrets of Rogue One.” Which, knowing muse, would probably be that new robot in a nightie.
Okay: so I was tired, and have a really warped muse.
I haven’t seen the new movie yet – it’ll be a while – but that’s funny anyway!
Her evening gown is stainless steel
I enjoyed it, so it didn’t result in moo-sick.
Then, I listen to Spike Jones, Allan Sherman, The Capitol Steps, Weird Al Yankovic… and wonder why so-called ‘normal’ people listen to such… dull… stuff.
I had an early introduction to Tom Lehrer that molded me, along with Ogden Nash. 😀
Ah yes, forgot Tom Lehrer (how?!?) and there was some exposure to Ogden Nash.
Maybe your muse can find mine. I lost the bitch back at the beginning of the last semester. She was supposed to be back by now…
Mine came back when I started writing fiction so I wouldn’t do Unkind Things to faculty. It started as venting and turned into novels. (And I can see why Amanda Cross so enjoyed writing “Death in a Tenured Position.”)
Writing as catharsis has much to commend it. Maybe my muse is just too content right now.
I’m for more madness and less genius! Smart’s good enough for me.
Some days I aspire to smart.
I always aspire to smart. I don’t often get there.
Ox like be smart.
Ox would settle for lucky.
Ox… still daft draft.
My foolish muse went and asked for a Dickens spoof. I’m making decent progress, but oh lordy, it’s hard to deal with the length…
Dear Lady,you are a Ginger, so much is forgiven you – but you are also a Ginger, so much is also blamed on you… Live with it, OK!
Now THAT was well done! 🙂
Why thank you!