The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

Volume-1                                          June-2011                                                        Number-1


††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† ††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† ††††††††††††††††††††


†††††††††††††† by Kenneth Pobo

Your beauty is like a calendar

with August missing.† When I said

if youíre late again, Iíll stuff you

in a pre-digital TV, drop you

in the Delaware River.† You

were on time.† Oh hairy-toed one,


oh hairy toad one, I called you darling

just when a horse from a farm

in the long ago showed up at my door.†


You didnít say it back.† I waited

for a century to crumble

like the gardenia I pinned on


my prom date.† Youíre cold

and Iím Pompeii sniffing

a smoking mountain.†





††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† by Kenneth Pobo

I order bisque in a posh

Michigan Avenue restaurant,

forget to ask is lobster in it,


I canít breathe,

my eyes squeeze shut,

Iím going to pass out,

in the ambulance

some woman holds my hand,

says just hang in there,

honey, just hang in there.


I become a code, a quick blast

of fix.† Some say that in

a near-death moment

we see ourselves rising

toward the light.† I saw nothing.


When breath returned,

my lungs were two

planets circling the sun,

both full of life.