PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Walking along the shore in morning light,
she thinks about the meaning yet again:
that she is now no ordinary girl,
but has been named, crowned, and received as Muse
through poems a certain poet wrote for her.
Boasting is not an option; carnal pride
is not an aspect; nor does she care for
such trifles that are not redeemed by love.
She thinks about that ceremonial night:
the candles glowed (almost supernal light).
Before her, seated on the ancient chair,
stood, smiling, Muses, Poets, Scholars, Knights
in their orders. Her poet crowned her; then
knelt down before her, at her stockinged feet,
(unshod, as Muses have preferred, since time
immemorial). Then the gathered cheered
and spoke the words far older than this date
and well beyond the world's rude ignorance;
words, poets said, that had their origin
among the faithful in Rome's catacombs.
She wondered---was it not a paradox?---
that he who had declared her Muse-ship knelt
before her in the pure relationship
that Muses and their Poets have had since
first verses---epic? lyric?---had been heard.
The tide, receding, has dampened the sand.
Beneath the long hem of her new sun dress,
her stockinged feet glide eagerly (tan hose---
the kind with reinforcements at the toes;
the kind she wore, when crowned, because she knows
her poet likes to see her wear them). As
she walks, the surfing boys stare at her and
the sunning girls sneer at her "Stockinged feet
"on wet sand---who said that is fashionable?").
They do not know, who never read a poem,
the answer to this question, or to those
that may, later, disrupt their thoughts when night's
short hours give way to hangovers that split
heads, making tongues swell forth from gaping mouths.