The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 –2178


Volume-2                                                  december -2012                                                Number-2



by Dr. David Garrett Izzo

Every new generation rediscovers the wheel,

Adjusting the spokes so that their new and improved version will appeal

To fellow nouveauxs.

Never mind that prior Enfant terribles of previous generations, once, like them,

 jumped on to the  back of their own proprietary fire engines and chased their tales in a manic

fever of desperation triggered by the youthful panic

that if the secret of the universe isn’t solved RIGHT NOW,

We’ll all be sucked into a black hole and, if so, how

Then will anyone be around to gratify their fragile psyches,

And listen to their anxious songs that predict new Reichs

For us to fear.  But, alas, they think we are all deaf, and they, prophets

To whom we pay no heed.  Indeed, on the other side of

Their reckless youth, maturity is offstage

Watching their show, knowing that, in time, the rage

Of naiveté will burst into a rain of feathers

Descending, slowly, gently, loosening the fetters

Of dumb freshness, tempering the blatant

Exhibitionism until the latent

Wisdom of encroaching age takes hold.

Then youth can take the time to really see the old

ways and say, ‘Now I understand what you were trying to say:

The more things change, the more they remain the same.





That Which is Imminent

by Dr. David Garrett Izzo


His mother said: “You know, I really don’t want to die.”

Eyes pale blue as they had always been,

The unchanging center around which the body shriveled.

82 is a long time to wear out.

Cane, walker, wheelchair, frustration.

She’d say, “The Brain works.”

She’d complained of her infirmity.

 “I wish I was dead damn it!”

And demand. And demand. And demand.

She’d never been easy living.

No different now.

Only TV movies offer lessons for dying.

Grace under pressure was not her forte.

Applying pressure was more like it.

He, the good son,

She, the mother with the history,

The family loony, vision askew,

No reality anyone else knew.

Diagnosed Crazy mean!

He, the good son; tried to please her, never could.

Tried to please others, never could.

He: therapy, drugs, nervous breakdown.

She: not a clue as to who was behind it all.

Nothing was ever her fault.

Not the locked doors,

Not the “never-touch-hug-kiss” he’d missed through all his days.

She’d driven his father away before he was even born.

She could not give for she had never received.

The sins of her mother visited on her children.

She’d said, “Grandma told us that when we were children

that she kissed us at night when we were sleeping.”

Hence, no affection any other time—a sign of weakness.

Bleak House was my childhood address; Dickens had company.

Arranging for cremation:

“Do you want to view her one last time?”