The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 2178


Volume-3                                                      DECEMBER -2013                                           Number-2



 by C.S. Fuqua

Flecks of midnight

court in barren trees,

their chatter penetrating brick.

A man stands at a window.

His breath catches

as the flecks merge,

surge upward,

wing avoiding wing,

a uniform mass

morphing into myriad shapes

on currents of ice-wind,

flowing from

abandoned tree

to empty field

to battered sky.






 by C.S. Fuqua

Have I mentioned --

have I taken time to express

my gratitude and admiration?

No, I didn't think so,

but I've certainly expressed

my frustrations,

have I not?

Of course.

Even as they melted away,

one by one,

moments of opportunity

slipping past without regard --

a quirk of humanity.

But I'm weary of being human

if human requires cold ignorance.


Let me start fresh.




With you.