The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 –2178


Volume-3                                                      DECEMBER -2013                                           Number-2




by Dianalee Velie

                                                            “The poem comes in the form of a blessing

                                                                     —‘like rapture breaking on the mind….

                                                                                                               -Stanley Kunitz-

                                                                                         July 29, 1905-May 14, 2006

Angels drifted, danced between his words,

settling in silence at the end of lines,

separating stanzas like good shepherds


cajoling their flocks, or like saintly birds

drifting into formative designs.

Angels drifted, danced between his words,


celebrating the golden standards

he established for his world of rhymes.

Separating stanzas like good shepherds,


dividing poems into halves or thirds

with precision of placement he realigns.

Angels drifted, danced between his words


as his spirit ascended upwards,

drifted into heavenly confines.

Separating stanzas like good shepherds,


his flock now consists of new bards

emulating his poetic outlines.

Angels drifted, danced between his words,

separating stanzas like good shepherds.









 by Dianalee Velie



we wander in the wonder of semi-slumber

filling the hours of il riposo, the rest,

with the sweetness of doing nothing.


            in Positano, theTyrrhenian Seabreezes

            waft over us with silken wavesof wind.

            We bare our bodies and satiate out souls


            mindfulness instead of full minds.

            Luscious lemons amidst green foliage

            scent the air with citrus musings.


            white table linens, drying in the sun

            on our villa’s veranda, mimic the pregnant

            sails on boats bound for Capri.


aquamarine waters, sprinkled with solar

diamond dust, lull us with the sound of surf

as we sip sparkling Proseco, lost in each bubble.


to the silence of whipped-cream clouds,

and thetickling sound ofangels’ laughter,

we savor thislusciousnesscalled life.