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Quack Quack
The muse is awake
seducing potential poetry.
But my brain, lacking, quakes
and quacks instead,
attacking bits of bread with
beaks which can't even speak
beautifully enough,
nor carry a rose between teeth
as offering to the throne
of the good goddess.
Another poem to atone for time
in the miracle of a lie.
I like the good natured
I like the good natured modesty of this poem, but I doubt your brain lacks anything. It certainly has an abundance to verbal talent, as your poems obviously, but not ostentatiously, demonstrate. A rose in the teeth is not nearly as good an offering to the Muse as this poem is; or any of yours.
Starward
Poetry as Atonement
now, that's a thought! :D