The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 2178


Volume-3                                                  June -2013                                              Number-1




by Richard Fein


I awake to an almost pitch black bedroom.

The shades are pulled lower than the sill

and are wider than the window frame.

Not even one photon penetrates

that opaque shield against the outside world.

Ravi Shankar's sitar plays on the stereo

and a faint red 3:30 is barely visible on the digital clock.

But a.m. or p.m. is a mystery.

Sometime ago I slipped into a dream,

was it a minute? an hour? an entire day ago?

It's a mystery I don't care to solve.

Yet I could throw the blanket aside

hike to the window and draw open the shade.

But sunlight would further blind my already blinded eyes.

And night would ease my eyes into an even greater dark.

No, I must remain a Rip Van Winkle or perhaps an Ichabod Crane

to keep pumpkin headed headless horsemen from haunting me.

So let Shankar's sitar-stroking fingers

lullaby me back into a gentle coma

in my private sleepy hollow.



by Richard Fein


He believed that a song auditioned a singer,

landscapes composed themselves on an artist's easel,

and money searched for those destined to have it.

The passive voice spoke for him,

and all his transactions were mandated

by a heavenly conglomerate of franchises,

of which he was assigned a life tenancy to just one.

All his final entries of debits and credits

were  scrutinized according to this plan,

a plan that reduced all franchisees

to the sum of averages and the average of sums,

the metaphysical balance sheet of some supreme auditor.

Some ledgers were  filled only with black ink  and others only with red,

and no soul who kept two sets of books could escape the divine accounting

for embezzlement or freely chucking his delegated franchise

and daring to become an independent entrepreneur.