The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 2178


Volume-2                                                  december -2012                                                Number-2



by Robert Lietz

No wonder we call this processing, shifting

ourselves as parts permit, with so much to learn

and so many directions to get home by, meaning

to put this down, before the paint's

been spilled or the finger sliced all over, the concrete

or desktop smeared, and the good sense

skewed, leaving garaged rides splintering, flaking,

and unreliable forever,

all of them, one by one, gone now, raked and shaved,

decaled, and recognizable as birthdays

the heart calls back in half a century, as secret

as snow melt, as snow

found tucked in desert and canyon places, as names,

and pinched vocabularies, subject

to awkward and ancient scrutinies, all she had told us

then, and all we would pray through, visited,

implied in the depths, no less, in the stratifications

everywhere, and the pens

I think I'm beginning to like all over, letting the impact,

import, the play of events

relived on tavern blocks and State routes, the snow

and this sun at last, day-long

and personal, evolve, at last, an evening programmed

by ever-playful angels, easing the haunts,

the necessities days built up in attics and garages,

and putting to use the forever-alien equipment,

the expressions, if you will, whatever will start him

musing now, this savoring, so to speak, thinking

to spare the rods and rides their miniature demolitions,

kids on their ways from the sloped drives

to more ghastly recreation, expecting the same

from winter still, instructed to wait, he thinks,

to feel the likes of vigilance and virtue,

the footing, as that was, and the agility,

the dexterity all over, sufficient

to proof that play of mindsets

and indulging.




by Robert Lietz

See how the winds heap snow along the berm

and salted courses, over and into

the old woods, where half-yard sections sit to weather,

as legends originate, evolve,

and quilters excite themselves, wall-paper artists

leave their mark a generation,

moved by a sympathetic genius we believe, and securing,

from base to beam, this sense

of a mused fragrance, despite the fits and starts, minding

the fractions, factorings

you can't quite find the names for, the swagger say,

of videographers and street poets,

a season lengthening if losing grip, and no longer able

to conceal the regrouping,

everywhere begun, so that there's no mistaking it,

not in these woods,

winds, on these mounds, like bargains explored

and left behind

for the late shoppers, for the joggers abroad

in Springfield

or Chicago, making a case for pacing

and insisting

their tech stretchies,     their